


Fire and Ashes

by secretagentstarchild



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Drug Use, Eventual Slit/Nux, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Lots of Angst, M/M, Please Don't Hate Me, Poor Nux, Scarification, Self-Harm, Slit is a Badass, Slow Burn, This is Not The Fluff You're Looking For, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:16:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4028227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretagentstarchild/pseuds/secretagentstarchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing could ever compare to the roar of the engine, a rumbling purr that he could feel vibrating from the metal of the floor and into his chest. All cylinders firing, turbo-charged, shiny and chrome, the taste of freedom and speed.</p><p>Happiness was the wheel clenched between his fists. Happiness was the scent of guzzaline and exhaust and hot metal and leather and oil against the skin. Happiness was the wind whipping past his face in a spray of hot sand and grit and dust, nothing but the open road before them.</p><p>Happiness was his heart pounding so hard against his ribcage, the fire of adrenaline, the sound of Slit crowing with joy from his precarious position in the lancer’s perch, pounding his fist with excitement against the hood of the car.</p><p>“Faster!” he heard Slit call.</p><p>Happiness was the thrill of the hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a small little stand alone to explain where Slit got his scarf... But the words wouldn't stop flowing and it sort of transformed into MUCH more than that. It's been a long time since I've written anything, so I apologize for the rustiness and my lack of action car-chase skills! So yeah, this is chapter one of... who knows how many chapters.

Nothing could ever compare to the roar of the engine, a rumbling purr that he could feel vibrating from the metal of the floor and into his chest. All cylinders firing, turbo-charged, shiny and chrome, the taste of freedom and speed.

Happiness was the wheel clenched between his fists. Happiness was the scent of guzzaline and exhaust and hot metal and leather and oil against the skin. Happiness was the wind whipping past his face in a spray of hot sand and grit and dust, nothing but the open road before them.

Happiness was his heart pounding so hard against his ribcage, the fire of adrenaline, the sound of Slit crowing with joy from his precarious position in the lancer’s perch, pounding his fist with excitement against the hood of the car.

“Faster!” he heard Slit call.

Happiness was the thrill of the hunt.

Nux laughed and pressed his foot harder against the pedal, coaxing even more speed from their metal steed. The bird on his dashboard bobbled his head faster, urging them along, a clattering urgency. Although they had left the Doof Wagon behind, the war boy could still hear the crunching sound of the guitar in his mind, the fierce pounding of the drums that echoed the pounding of his heart. 

The chase had lasted over an hour, and their quarry was finally starting to slow. 

There was a motorcycle ahead, beaten and dusty. Two passengers clung desperately to its body, as if their fear could lend it speed – a single man and the lithe form of a woman. Her arms were curled tightly around his back, one hand still grasping the small form of a gun whose bullets had been spent when the merry chase had begun. There were no bullets left – no hope, no chance. Yet still, they ran.

No one escaped Immortan Joe’s vehemence. No one could escape his devoted Warboys. Fury Road belong to Him, and Him alone. All those who dared to ride upon its glory were subject to the rule of the God himself. No one could slip across unseen.

When the scouts had spotted the rising dust of the caravan trying to attempt the impossible – a motley handful of cars held together by rust, with a string of motorcycles attempting to circle in guard formation – there was only one thing to do. 

Ride.

And when the caravan had become nothing more than a twisted inferno of steel and flame, when the parched sand was watered with the blood of the smegs – and one single motorcycle attempted to flee, seeking one last desperate chance of survival – Nux hadn’t hesitated. He veered off from the main force with a fierce scream of ecstasy, laughing at the thrill. 

Pathetic fools, with slanger in their blood instead of chrome, soft and weak and prey. He would show them Immortan Joe’s fury. He would rip their throats from their necks and ride over their bodies just to hear that delightful crunch of bones snapping, he would show them fear. He would make them pay for their arrogance. No one drove upon the Fury Road without Immortan Joe’s permission. 

His scarred lips twisted and pulled apart into a grin, fierce, proud, and habit made his hand drop from the shift for a moment, reaching down to brush against the fabric looped around his waist. His good luck charm. The greenish brown fabric was soft, so soft, yet it had once touched the brow of Immortan Joe, had once soaked up the precious sweat – the salt and water of the God himself. When the Warboys had erupted into a fury of fists over the scarf, Nux had emerged victorious, clinging to the fabric as if it was as cool and soothing as water itself. 

Years later, he wore it still, tied around his thin hips like a belt. A piece of Immortan Joe. His good luck charm, more prized than even the cherished car beneath him. It had led him to many victories, and one day, it would lead him to Valhalla too.

“I live, I die, I live again,” he murmured the litany out of habit, but the words gave him strength, a fresh burst of pride, of ferocity, and his hand shifted from the fabric to a button on the dashboard, a pale skull carved into the metal. 

He pushed. 

The car jerked forward as nitrogen and oxygen flooded the engine, giving it another burst of speed. The motorcycle was only two hundred feet in front of them, then a hundred, then fifty. It tried to veer to the right, desperate to put more distance between them, but Nux had the scent of blood now – he veered with them.

“Got ‘em!” Slit yelled, and he could hear the slither of metal against metal as his lancer picked up a grenade-tipped spear, and threw it. 

The explosion was a thing of beauty, fire and heat and metal screaming to echo the shriek of the woman as the motorcycle went flying, a sound as beautiful as the wardrums that echoed in his mind. The prey had fallen.

He hit the brakes, turning the wheel sharply to head back to the wreckage, and Slit jumped off before it had even rolled to a stop. When the car came to a rest, Nux slithered out from the opening in the roof, and joined his brother at the scene.

Pieces of metal littered the sand like bones, twisted and scorched, and thick, noxious smoke rose from the burning tires, Metal wasn’t the only thing scattered across the ground – bits of flesh and blood and gear – the remnants of life torn asunder.

Slit stood over the body of the man, laughing as he looked over his handwork. “Stupid sleg,” he grinned, kicking the form that was barely recognizable as human. 

Nux crouched over the still, broken form of the woman, frowning. Women were a rare sight in the Citadel – all he knew were the hard bodies of his war brothers, the sharp angles and twisted sinews of muscles. His eyes barely even noticed the weeping sores on her face, not a product of the wreckage but a reminder of the poisons that flowed through the wastelands of this desert world.

All he could see was her hair, pouring out over the sand in a tawny gold, warm like the sun. He crouched down, fingers teaching out to touch the strands.

Shiny, he thought. Shiny and soft, unlike anything he had ever felt before, silk against his palms, glistening like light puddled in his grasp. For a moment, he held the sun in his hands.

“Nux.” 

The word penetrated his haze, a single syllable filled with a low urgency that tore his eyes away. He snapped his head upwards to look up at Slit, squinting his eyes against the harsh desert sun. 

“We’re in the Badlands.” 

Nux leapt to his feet, immediately, scanning their surroundings. It was true. The wild blood in his veins, the song of the chase had dulled his senses, and he had paid no notice when they had turned off of the Fury Road and east into the wild dunes that surrounded it, tearing through mile after mile of dust and sand. 

They had left behind their territory miles ago. Now they were in the Badlands, patrolled and protected by the Buzzards with their rusted spikes, thirst for destruction, and greed – the worst of the scavengers of the world. A turbulent truce existed in the land alongside of the Last Road, but they were far from the blurred borders of safety. Now they were in the heart of the Badlands, territory protected fiercely by the Buzzard boys.

And there was no way that those human vultures hadn’t heard the blast of the grenade – no way that they could miss the thick plumes of black smoke rising like a flag from the wreckage of the motorcycle. They would not miss a chance to pick over the helpless remains of anyone unfortunate enough to trespass in their lands.

There was no need to say a word to Slit. They ran to the car. Slit jumped onto the back in the lancer’s perch that was his home, gripping the metal tightly. Nux slipped in through the top window with an ease born of years of practice. The moment he slammed into the seat, his hand was on the stick and his foot smashed against the pedal, and the engine roared in response. Sand sprayed against the windshield as tires tore through the ground, and they were off.

They were running again, but this time, not in pursuit of prey.

But it wasn’t fast enough.

Slit’s fist pounded against the roof of the car to catch his attention, and Nux glanced to the right. Sure enough, he could already see the menacing, rusted spikes of a Buzzard jalopy, dilapidated but fierce. 

Adrenaline fueled through his veins again like the guzzaline through the beast below him. There was no fear. Death was as much a part of this broken world as the unforgiving sun above them, as the fevers that burned inside of their chests during the harsh, cold nights, as the blood that watered the earth more frequently than rain. He knew nothing but this existence, the wastelands with their fierce brutality that were as intoxicating as they were vicious.

Warboys were always prepared for their half-life to burn out in a blaze of glory. But there was no glory in accepting defeat.

“Come on, come on, come on,” he murmured, one hand reaching out to brush against the dashboard, as if the soft caress could bring more speed from his beloved machine. He glanced over his shoulder – the Buzzards were getting closer, distance closing by yards, desert devoured between hunter and prey. A mist of bullets suddenly peppered the air – the Buzzards were out for blood. 

There was a loud roar, a sound as familiar to him as the wardrums that beat during every battle. The loud explosions of grenades. He knew that Slit was in his element – thousands of hours of practice giving him a steady arm to loft the spears that would bring destruction.

But the Buzzards were smart – they had survived too long against their neighbors. They swerved from the lances, and each explosion landed harmlessly against sand. And inched closer. 

“Fuck!” he heard Slit swear with frustration, his voice gritty and raw.

The entire car jerked forward, a loud crashing screech of metal screaming – the Buzzards were on top of them, speeding up to crunch into their backside again, trying to unbalance them. Nux dared another glance over his shoulder – Slit had flattened himself to the ground of his perch, narrowly escaping the wicked rusted spikes that jutted out from the front of the jalopy, like broken teeth eager to bite into flesh.

There was no more nitro to give them an extra burst forward, and the gas pedal was already pressed flat against the floor. There was no more speed to gain. There was only one black-thumb war boy behind the wheel of a car pressed far beyond its limits.

Maybe this would be the day his half-life came to an end, a twisted wreckage of a boy with a glorious death – and the gates of Valhalla would be waiting for him. There would be only chrome brightness, with the arms of his brothers slapping his back in welcome, the song of the heroes lifting his heart, and Immortan Joe himself might speak of his death and the honor of battle. 

It was a lovely day to die. And Slit would be at his side. They would die as they had lived – fighting, laughing, facing the odds side by side. It was only fitting that they would meet the gates of Valhalla together too.

“Fuckin’ slegs,” he heard Slit scream at them, hurling the words as if they were grenades themselves. “Nothin’ but vultures – slanger eatin’ sister fuckers!” They answered with another spray of bullets.

Nux couldn’t help but laugh. 

Another twisted crunch of metal, another shudder as the Buzzards leapt forward to crash into them again. Nux’s knuckles were white as he struggled to keep the wheel steady, but it still whipped from his grasp, and for a moment, the car went wild, veering savagely to the left before he could gain control and wrest it back to the right.

There was a gasp, a thump, and then a strange silence from the back of his vehicle – and suddenly, Nux felt the first twinge of fear. He glanced back. The lancer’s perch was empty. Slit was gone.

The battle lust evaporated – the fire in his blood, the wild pounding drums in his veins that called him to kill, called him to die. It was extinguished beneath an unfamiliar iciness clutching at his chest. Terror. Unfamiliar to the Warboys who lusted for death as if it were a woman – yet, here it was. It was metallic against his tongue, swelling his throat, dampening his brow with a pale, cold sweat. It was consuming, cold, fierce, making his hands feel weighted with brick, making each breath a struggle to draw into his lungs. 

Slit was gone? Had he taken a bullet? Had he lost his footing when the car had veered out of control? Was he laying dead upon the sands, his half-life pouring from his body in rivers of blood? 

Was he already at the gates of Valhalla? Or would Nux make the journey there alone?

He heard a crow of triumph from behind him, the rough unfamiliar voices of the Buzzards celebrating their victory. And this time, he wasn’t ready for the crunch of metal. This time, when the wheel tore itself from his grasp, the entire world came apart at the seams. 

Everything was upside down and right side up, sideways and spinning, glass shattering, steel screaming like the woman with the golden hair before death claimed her, metal twisting and shrieking like the cries of the Wretched, and sand in his mouth choking his words, and he was tumbling, falling, hands flung out to grasp something anything – 

“Witness—” He tried to throw out the words, but there was no one to witness, no one to see his glory – there was only glass and metal and fire and terror and pain.

And then darkness.


	2. The Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slit awakens after the Hunt gone wrong - to discover Nux is missing and he is alone in the vast, cruel desert.

Sand filled his mouth, sharp and gritty and dry, coating his tongue like paper. Slit groaned, spitting out a mouthful of dirt and blood. Sand. Always the fucking sand – tiny little crystals of grit and glass that got into your food, into your eyes, into your lungs with every breath. It was all he had ever known – but right now, Slit cursed it all.

He was laying in the sand. That was unusual. Why had Nux let him fall asleep outside of the Citadel? If he had missed guard duty, it would mean stripes along his back for sure, more scars to add to the collection.

_Nux._

Slit’s eyes flashed open and reality punched him in the face. He remembered the celebratory screams of the Buzzards as they barreled down upon them. He remembered slamming his body to the floor of the lancer’s perch, rusted metal spikes barely missing his face and snapping off the heads of his lances, splinters raining down upon him. He remembered the spray of bullets, laughing when they all missed.

He remembered the look of determination on Nux’s face as the other boy looked over his shoulder, the way his hands gripped the wheel tightly, shifted the stick to command all of the speed their battered vehicle could muster.

He remembered the Buzzard bastards speeding up – his body tensed for another impact. But he couldn’t prepare for the car to veer out of control when metal crunched against metal once more – the sharp jerk of the wheel and his hands slipping. One moment, he was grasping his perch tightly, but the lash of the car tore it out from his palms, and he was only grasping at empty air. And then he was falling, falling, thrown from the vehicle like a rag doll. There was time for one brief moment of horror – Nux – he had to protect Nux – lancers always protected their drivers – he couldn’t leave –

And then his body had landed and his head struck the earth and all thoughts were halted. Darkness.

_Nux._

Slit scrambled to his feet in an instant, cursing at the pain of protest that screamed through his body. Miraculously, nothing felt broken. The skin of his chest and arms were raw and stained with blood, scraped and torn away from sliding across the sand – but he could move his arms, move his legs. One ankle was swollen and sore, probably sprained – he could put weight on it gingerly. Nothing broken. Nothing else mattered. The rest was superficial, trivial.

He pushed the pain to the side, as he had been trained to do.

The sun was beginning to set, the sky blazed with warm cherry reds and golden apricots, mixed with a vivid violet to tie it all together. But Slit had no time for the meaningless perfection of a sunset. What use did a Warboy have for empty beauty like that?

He lifted his hand to shield his eyes, scanning the horizon. His shadow was already lengthening, a giant sprawled across the dunes. The temperature was dropping quickly – the wind held a chill that caused goose pimples to spring up over his bare skin, and it made the raw skin on his chest and arms ache. But Warboys were used to the cold. They were used to the pain.

There. Maybe a thousand yards away, the sun was glinting off of metal, a dazzling flash that hurt his eyes. Nux.

He immediately began running, ignoring the pain of his sprained ankle as he scrambled awkwardly across the dunes. He wanted to call out Nux’s name, wanted to break this wretched silence. But so deep inside of enemy territory, that wasn’t wise. So he pushed his body harder, faster. The yards began to crumble – the metal in the distance growing larger, closer.

And his stomach sunk when he drew nearer and recognized the twisted wreckage. Suddenly, he couldn’t feel the pain in his ankle anymore. 

“Nux, you idiot,” he swore under his breath in a show of bravado, “If you died without me, I’m gonna follow you to Valhalla and kick your skinny ass myself.”

The yards closed too slowly, but finally, he was there. Metal carnage was all that he saw. Thick shards of glass littered the sands like fallen stars, a thousand broken wishes for the broken souls of the wasteland. What was left of Nux’s pride and joy was a scorched skeleton. The metal doors had been removed, and the shiny chrome exhaust system that wrapped around them. The engine was gutted – the tires gone, even the front seat had been removed, torn from its bolts to be installed into a new machine. 

The Buzzards took their trade seriously. Anything that came into their territory, they could find a use for. The most important treasures had been dragged away already – but more of the human vultures would return, breaking down every scrap of metal, carting away every shard of glass – until nothing remained but sand.

It was as if he was looking at Nux’s heart, stripped bare and left for the vultures to feed on.

Nux. Where was Nux? Slit couldn’t see a body anywhere. He looked under smaller fragments of metal, poked inside of the twisty, fiery shell of the car, kicked at thicker dunes that could have been obscuring a corpse. He even dared to call out his friend’s name. But only silence answered.

He began to circle around the husk of the vehicle, eyes scanning the broken ground for clues, hints, anything. The sun was setting fast, and each moment caused his frustration to grow, the light fading from soft reddish orange to the dark violet of twilight. 

Then he stumbled upon it.

Half buried in the sand, a scrap of fabric he almost missed. His heart skipped a beat when he crouched down, fingers weaving into familiar cloth and pulling it from the sand. It came easily, no longer wrapped around the hips of a skinny, fierce Warboy, but fluttering free. Nux’s treasure. Once upon a time, it had touched the sweat from the Immortan’s brow, but Slit couldn’t give two shits about that right now. It was damp and sticky, dark with blood. Nux’s blood, he knew. Nux would never leave his treasure behind willingly.

Slit gripped the fabric in his fist, and scanned the sand again. There. He could see faint lines in the dirt where the fabric had fallen – drag marks. Something soft and heavy had been dragged away from the burning wreckage of the vehicle. There was no other explanation. There was no body. The scavengers had taken everything they could find a use for. Including Nux.

“Fuck!” Slit swore as the light slipped past the horizen completely. Darkness had fallen and he was helpless, and the frustration of the situation was building. He wanted to scream, wanted to stab something, wanted to feel a knife slip through soft flesh and scrape against bone, wanted to throw a lance and feel the world shake and burn in response. He wanted to destroy something, destroy anything, destroy this entire brutal world.

“Fuckin’ Buzzards,” he shouted, daring them to emerge from the darkness, wanting to kill them, kill them all, tear them apart with his bare hands and leave them broken, strewn across the desert for the rats to eat.

There was only silence, only his own overwhelming fury, and he lashed out at the side of the car – one of the few pieces of beaten metal left behind. The metal dented beneath his fist satisfyingly, and he punched it again, and again and again. His shoulders ached when he finally stopped – his knuckles swollen, bruised, torn – but not broken. Not after years of punching everything and everyone around him.

Slit panted, suddenly exhausted. “Nux,” he muttered, as if his friend could hear him. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” 

He turned his back to the car, sliding down to the sand and leaning back against the metal, still warm from the day’s sun. The chill had faded – it was truly cold now, and Slit shivered. 

Where was Nux now? Left for dead somewhere in the Badlands, his body buried in the desert where no one could ever find him? Was he breathing, buried deep inside of the Buzzard burrows of the Sunkin City? Kept as a slave – or worse? Everyone knew that the Buzzards had no qualms about adding long meat to their diet – but even filthy scavengers like them wouldn’t eat carrion, right? Which meant Nux was probably alive. He had to be alive. They wouldn’t have taken him otherwise.

Slit was still grasping Nux’s scarf in his battered fist, and he lifted the fabric to his face, burying his face amongst the folds of cloth and breathing deep. Blood and sand aside, it even smelled like Nux. The scent of axle grease and guzzaline and the faint musk that belonged to Nux alone.

He closed his eyes. It was uncomfortable, this hollowly lonely feeling, this aching hold in his stomach. War boys were trained to be heartless, merciless, vicious. Bred only to fight. Bred only to die. And yet... He missed Nux. The goofy, wide-eyed idiot. Out of all of the Warboys, Nux was the only one he could stand for longer than a day. The only one who could calm his rage, the only one who could taunt him, punch him and receive nothing but laughter in response. 

Stars were popping out about his head, tiny shimmer pin pricks that steadily grew brighter as more of them emerged. Beyond the stars, the dark sky was painted with a pale pearlescent shimmer.

“The road to Valhalla,” Nux would say wistfully, if he were here. Always a dreamer. Always filled with a wild energy and wilder smile – like sunlight itself. If Nux was sunlight, then Slit was darkness. But they balanced each other. Pushed each other. Taunted and fought and brawled and laughed.

It had been the same when they were Pups, all scrap and bone and bravado, getting cursed at, cuffed, and always underfoot. Nux, with his big goofy smile that revealed his missing top teeth, Slit with his big ears and pouty glowers. Nux had broken his jaw one – Slit had broken his arm in return. Years later, they still wore bruises from their constant scuffles – but how else could boys bred to brutaltiy and war display affection?

When Nux had discovered his obsession with mechanics, Slit had followed his friend down into the black pits where sparks flew and beautiful, vicious machines came to life. He could handle a torch with the best of them, but he lacked the true black thumb. He could appreciate the thrum of a well-tuned V8 – but he couldn’t make one sing. Not like Nux.

When the scrappy little pups had grown into adolescents, all long legs and awkward elbows, Slit found his calling in armed battle, always ready to pick a fight, to test himself against the arms of his brother. He was all rage and strength and frustration, desperate to prove himself – desperate to stand out from the sea of identical white-painted youths. Only Nux could cool his temper, could keep the intense brawls with other youths with others cascading into something truly murderous. Slit was all fire – always ready to fan into flames. But Nux was like the wind that blew across bare scalp on a hot day – soothing and wild and free.

Together, they could form an inferno – raging fire and howling wind like the lightning laced tornado storms that blew across the desert. When they had survived their first raiding party and were accorded the full rank and responsibilities of being a true War boy – they rejected the idea of breaking their team apart. It was natural that Nux would claim his own wheel, and Slit would ride along side of him. Driver and lancer. Wind and fire. Glory would be theirs.

In all of the years they had spent along side of each other, it was rare for a night to pass without each other’s presence. Unless one of them was injured and under the watchful eyes of the Organic Mechanic. But those nights had been rare.

He was used to the sound of Nux’s steady breathing in the bunk beside him, used to waking up when Nux would poke his side or throw a shoe at his face and tell him to stop snoring, used to hearing his friend’s teeth chatter when the night fevers would strike and his skin burned from the fire within.

He rarely ever thought about Nux’s presence – just like he didn’t question the presence of the sun beating down in the sky each morning, just as he didn’t question his own shadow. Nux was Nux. But now, Slit felt the hole. He felt the absence, spending the night without his war brother, staring up at the wide, lonely sky. 

What if there were a thousand more nights just like this one? The uncomfortable thoughts came to his mind unbidden. What if Nux was never returning? What if he was dead, gone to Valhalla? 

Slit didn’t handle emotions well. His own were too intense, too turbulent, always lashing inside of his body until his body lashed out too. Fighting was the only thing that calmed him when emotions were too strong, too out of control. But there was no one to fight here. No one to battle. Only the emptiness of the desert and the aching silence of the stars overhead. 

He leapt to his feet anyways, unable to halt the energy crackling through his veins, ignoring the stab of pain from his ankle. He began to pace in the darkness, needing to move, needing to do something, anything other than sitting on his arse like a soft Milker.

He knew what he should be doing. He should be walking towards the horizon where the sun had set, stumbling through the dark until dawn arrived to the light the way, each yard bringing him closer to the Citadel, closer to the safety of the Fury Road. He should be crossing most of the vast distance at night, so the unforgiving and brutal sun wouldn’t drain him of his lifewater, leaving him to bake and die, leaving him nothing but hot meat for the vultures to eat.

There was no water here. No food. If he wanted to reach home, he needed to leave now. But what then? No one would send a war party in search of a missing boy. Nux would be dismissed, forgotten. War boys were bred and raised to die. 

Death didn’t frighten Slit. 

Helplessness frightened him. Weakness frightened him. Dying in his sleep frightened him, torn from his glory by sickness and sweats, denied the glory he craved. But never knowing what happened to Nux frightened him most of all.

There it was. The decision was as easy as that, and a grin split across Slit’s cracked lips. He looked down at the fabric still clutched between his fingers, and in one smooth motion, tied the ends together and wrapped the loose loop around his neck, where he could keep it close, keep it safe. 

It was simple. 

He would find Nux. Or he would die trying.


	3. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nux finds himself imprisoned in a Buzzard bunker, sunk deep below the earth. But he isn't prepared for the horror that awaits him there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and the comments - I am so, so, SO happy that you are enjoying this adventure that has been wiggling around in my brain! I am sorry for the pain Nux is about to endure - I always seem to hurt the characters I adore. But life in the wastelands is made of brutality and pain - even for beautiful and fierce yet somehow innocent war boys.

Was this Valhalla? Where were the shiny gates, chrome bright to mirror the hearts of the warriors who celebrated within? Where were the cheers, the cries of welcome, the sound of the drums, the purr of the engines, the warmth of the world where he could ride Eternal? 

Immortan Joe never mentioned the darkness. He never mentioned the cold.

Pain blossomed, tearing a low moan from his lips, and Nux’s eyes cracked open. The world spun, a sickening cyclone of colors and shapes that ached worse than his body. He clenched them tight again, but regret came too late, and he felt his stomach lurch, sour bile pouring from his lips in a wave of vomit and nausea.

He could not wipe it away, though it took him a long moment to discover why. His brain felt scrambled, sluggish, like a dying engine trying to splutter to life. His hands wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move. Cold bands enclosed them. Steel. He was chained. Hands above his head, arms screaming from the weight of his body, unconscious too long. 

Every breath hurt. Each attempt to draw in oxygen brought a wave of agony, lungs too weak and battered to do more than gasp. He knew this pain, a familiar friend who had visited him many times over the years. Ribs. Broken. Several of them, probably. And probably a hundred different bruises, to judge by the ache of his muscles.

He tried to stiffen his legs to bear his weight. His legs trembled, struggled, and failed. He collapsed once more against the chains. The pain would have made him vomit again, but his stomach was empty. 

_Of course, this isn’t Valhalla,_ his mind whispered viciously. _Valhalla is for heroes. For the brave. Not cowardly slegs like you._

He struggled to rise to his feet once more, and this time, his legs cooperated. They still shivered weakly, but they held his weight. One victory for the coward.

Nux steeled himself for another battle, and once more opened his eyes. Slight difficulty there. Only one of his eyes would open - the other was swollen and crusted shut. The room swam, but less intense this time, and soon settled. 

He was in a small room. A faint lantern burned in the corner, a dying flame resting on a wooden crate. The light was dark, casting shadows that stretched like hands into every corner, darker than the eyes of the Warboys that would fill with disdain if they knew of his cowardice. The shadows fell over boxes and crates, stacked haphazardly in dusty columns. The walls were metal, thick cold steel and gleaming nuts - and the ceiling mirrored them, though it had a dozen thick rings bolted to the steel. His chains looped through two of these rings, one attached to each arm. Across from him, there was a door - unforgiving steel that was flaked with rust, though the latch and the hinges looked clean enough. It was a Buzzard Bunker, one of their Sunken cities where they sheltered and hid beneath the earth.

Unlike the walls and ceiling, the floor was made out of dirt - packed down tight from years of treading. It was cold against his bare feet, an iciness so foreign to a boy who thrived in sun and sand. 

He blinked slowly, trying to shake his head free of the brain fog. _Bare feet?_

“Bloody scavengers,” he managed to croak, though the effort of the words tore against his dry, raspy throat, provoking a cough that he couldn’t control - which set a fresh new wave of agony upon him. For a moment, he was blind, vision swimming red.

His feet were bare - the Buzzards had stolen his prized matching boots, his warm socks - even the dark shirt that had clad his chest, leaving him only in torn, dusty pants that were uncomfortably light - his attackers had no doubt emptied his pockets before leaving him chained in some dusty storage room. What threat was he? A skinny, shrunken War Boy with vomit and blood spilled across his smooth, white painted chest. A coward who had not looked upon the ending of his half life with bravery and excitement - but terror. 

They had even taken the scarf that he wore tied around his waist – his treasured scrap of fabric that had once touched the brow of the Immortan himself, blessed with good luck. As if Joe had seen his failure from afar and reached out his great hand and plucked it from his life.

_Because you no longer deserve to wear it,_ came the cruel whispering reminder in his head. 

Shame was stronger than pain, he discovered then. 

His entire life, he had been proud. Proud to be chosen to work the engines, proud of his skills as a black thumb, proud to serve in the ranks of the War Boys, proud to terrorize the wastelands with Slit at his side, proud to be one of Immortan Joe’s devoted servants.

That was the worst thought of all. He had been chosen as a small boy, chosen to join the ranks of the Warpups to be trained into a War Boy. Chosen to receive the gift of Immortan Joe’s Valhalla – a life after death, given only to those brave enough to grasp it, only those with chrome hearts and glorious deaths. 

He had failed. Failed the Immortan, failed his God, failed his brothers who had gone to Valhalla before him, failed those who would come after. Failed Slit. He would not be reborn – such a gift was not meant for cowards. He was nothing. His half-life would be his whole life. Nothing but sand and sun and burning and pain and a thirst never quenched. Hell.

And Slit – surely Slit was already there. Whether a bullet had taken his life or whether the monstrous Buzzard car had torn over his body as he fell to the dunes - Slit was gone. Already at Valhalla, chrome and shiny and eternal and whole – waiting for the War brother that would never come. Who didn’t deserve to come.

His eyes were burning, but he shook his head angrily. 

_Stupid soft slag,_ he raged at himself, trying to find his fire again. He might have a coward’s heart, but he wouldn’t betray his brothers by weeping like a weak, soft Breeder or a groveling Wretched. Tears might be scorching inside of his chest, but he could not let them fall.

There. There was the fury. Shame and pain twisting together, mating, morphing into a blossom of rage. Rage at himself, at his weakness, rage at the chains that held his arms, rage at Slit’s demise, rage at this prison that kept him from his brothers, rage at his own fucking helplessness in the face of it all. It was more than a blossom now – it was a storm, lashing out behind his ribs like lightning flashing across the face of a tornado, too immense to be contained in the body of one broken boy.

He screamed then, a howl that tore his throat raw. Fury gave him strength, strength to ignore the pain, strength to pull at his chains. They clamored against the metal ring in an awful cacophony, as he lashed out his arms, pulling, straining. 

The chains held tight. The ring in the ceiling remained firmly bolted.

And the door swung open with a clang that reverberated through the tiny storage room.

There were only two men, as hard as the Wasteland that bred them. The taller one had strong shoulders, a looming husky build that seemed barely able to fit through the door. His hair flowed down his shoulders in a greasy, knotted tangle of black strands, merging almost completely with the unkempt beard that fell to his collarbone. His nose had been broken several times, but healed crooked with a flat spot on the bridge – his brown eyes calculating. But those eyes were nothing compared to that of his companion – a leaner, wiry man with brown hair shorn close to his skull, his tanned skin wrinkled deep by the unforgiving sun above. His eyes were blue – cold, pale, filled with ice, though currently watching Nux with interest.

Nux didn’t think. He screamed again, a shrieking war cry while he rattled his chains, struggling to tear them from the ceiling, struggling to get free so he could tackle his captors and pluck out those blue eyes with his own two hands, laughing at their arrogance to keep one of Immortan Joe’s boys kept in a cage.

He wasn’t soft, he wasn’t a coward, he would show them, show them all, show them the fury of a Warboy, show them how foolish they were to have kept him alive. He would redeem himself. 

Blue Eyes strode across the room calmly, even when his approach triggered a further frenzy in the boy who was struggling desperately to escape. And calmly, with one fist, he delivered a blow to Nux’s sternum. Pain. Overwhelming pain as broken ribs screamed in protest, and his scream of fury died down into a choking gasp.

Nux panted, gasping to draw in a breathful of air, the oxygen in the room now soured with the scent of rotten sweat to accompany the stench of his own vomit. He couldn’t scream – so he glared, putting all of his hatred into the one eye that opened. 

“Feckin’ Buzzard bastards,” he hissed as soon as he could breathe again.

The Giant said something to Blue Eyes, their words flying around the room in a thick garble of language that Nux couldn’t understand, harsh and merciless. Blue Eyes gave a bark of laughter, and stepped closer to his prey. 

Nux hated that laugh, hated their faces, hated their sour sweat and greasy hair and every breath that poured into their lungs. 

“You’d better kill me quick,” he warned them. He didn’t care if they understood him or not. “’Cuz as soon as I’m free, I’m gonna shred the skin from your skulls and piss in your eye sockets while you beg to die.” 

“Boy has fire,” commented Giant from the door way, his English harsh and broken but understandable. Blue Eyes nodded in agreement as he stepped closer.

Nux struck, whipping out both of his feet in a kick, while he grasped at the chains, aimed straight for that thin chest. But he was a boy, wounded and weak, and Blue Eyes evaded the kick easily, his cold eyes sparking with a look of amusement while Nux sagged back in the chains, panting.

_I live, I die, I live again._

“Boy not happy he lives?” came Blue Eyes’ drawl, and he reached into his vest to withdraw a knife. The blade was as long as his palm, shining, the sharp edge glinting wickedly in the low lantern light. 

_Yes._ It was almost a relief to see the blade. Nux knew he wasn’t going to make it out of here alive. He saw his own death waiting for him in this tiny bunker room – and if he was brave enough, he might have a chance. Not a chance to escape – but a chance for glory. Maybe he would see Valhalla. Maybe he would see Slit again, and they could ride the Eternal Road together. He wouldn’t be afraid. He would die like a War Boy, all fury and strength and wild frenzy and joy. He might die in chains but he would ride Free. He could redeem himself.

_I live, I die, I live again._

Blue Eyes tilted his head to the side slightly, as if trying to guess what thoughts were passing through Nux’s brain. 

Giant’s eyes, on the other hand, flickered over the Warboy’s painted body, nose wrinkling at the sight of the vomit on his chest, reaching out with one hand to brush a light fingers over a dried patch of blood.

_Step closer,_ Nux prayed. _One more step. Just one more._ He leaned heavy against his chains, as if his tired, aching body lacked the strength to move, the strength to fight. _Come closer._

And Giant did, leaning down to peer curiously at the boy. 

Nux didn’t hesitate. He lashed out again, but not with his legs – he head-butted the Giant as hard as he could, and this time, he heard the satisfaction of bone against bone, cartilage snapping, and the pain in his head was a small price to pay for the blood that streamed down the Giant’ face from his once-more broken nose. He would show them that War Dogs never stopped fighting. 

“Boy should not have done that,” Giant growled violently, his voice strangely muffled from the broken nose. 

And Nux was prepared for the punch that followed, one heavy fist connected solidly with his jaw, like a wall of brick, tearing him off balance and sending him sagging for one breathless moment against his chains. It was just one more bruise and a loose tooth to add to his collection. What was more pain to a Warboy? Nothing but an old friend.

“Enough,” Blue Eyes commanded when the Giant drew his arm back for another punch. The Giant grumbled, but did not fight the order, retreating a step backwards as blood continued to stream from his broken nose and into the black curls of his beard.

Nux struggled to his feet again, under Blue Eyes’ watch. He raised his head, meeting the cold gaze with fire in his own. And he spat. A thick glob of saliva and blood – aimed perfectly. It landed squarely on Blue Eyes’ cheek, a lovely splatter of defiance that instantly began to ooze down the flesh.

He didn’t think it was possible for those cold eyes to turn even colder, but anger made them look like glass, just as sharp, just as merciless.

“Fuckin’ sleg scum,” he taunted them with a laugh, as Blue Eyes wiped away the mess of spit and blood with the cuff of his sleeve, the lantern light once again sparking off of the blade held so tenderly in his hand.

Adrenaline was flagging – Nux’s broken body was exhausted, but he couldn’t show weakness. Not here. Not now. He held his head up as high as he could. 

_I live, I die, I live again._

“Boy should not have done that.” From the Giant, those angry words had been laughable. But when pouring from Blue Eyes’ lips, so cold and detached... A sudden chill rose up Nux’s spine. He had hoped to provoke them, and he had done the job. Death would come for him – but not quickly. 

“Hold him,” he heard Blue Eyes say to Giant, and two hands were suddenly gripping his shoulders, holding him firm. And then the blade was at his chest, cold against fevered flesh, sharp, so sharp, digging down, cutting through the pale skin, pain and fire and warmth pouring down his torso.

He cursed them, over and over again, but the Giant’s sweaty hands quickly muffled the noise. 

Then the blade was gone, and a single deep line was etched into the smooth flesh of his chest, a solo hatch mark, bleeding freely. Nux was gasping, the pain receding into a steady burn, waiting for the Giant to let him go, waiting for them to start punching again, waiting for them to kill him, waiting for this to be over. He knew the knife would come again, he knew the fists would come again, he knew the pain would become excruciating before it ended completely.

Valhalla waited for him. 

“One mark,” Blue Eyes told him. “To count.”

_Count what?_

His breath came in shuddering gasps. But the Giant still held him. And a horrifying sound filled the small room. The faint metal rattle and the slither of leather as Blue Eyes unbuckled his belt in one smooth, slow motion, the harsh buzz of a zipper being unfastened – those merciless eyes colder than ever before. 

Nux yelled. He tried to struggle, tried to kick, tried to head butt once more – but the Giant’s strength was much greater than his. There was no glory here, there was no honor. Nothing chrome, nothing shiny. 

_No, please no, please, don’t -_

There was only pain. There was only the sour stench of sweat and bile and the metallic taste of blood and cold fear and helplessness and fury and the rattle of chains and the muffled sounds of his screams.

There was no Valhalla for him. There was only the hell of the Wasteland.


	4. The Rampage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slit hunts down the Buzzard bandits who captured his friend. And none of them are safe from his fury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to call this chapter "Terms of En-rampagement" for the sake of giggles, but alas, that wouldn't fit the style of the other chapters.
> 
> I apologize for any typos in this - I wrote it quickly and haven't had time to review it! But I couldn't wait to get it out of my brain and bring it to life!
> 
> Trigger warning: lots of gratuitous violence in this chapter. Because Slit likes rampaging. Moral of the story is, don't stand in the way between him and Nux.

Slit grinned wickedly as he peered over the ridge of his hiding place, staring down at the two men who stood guard. His hunt hadn’t led him into the heart of the Badlands, into the warren of bunkers that created the Sunken City, the haphazard nests where the human rats lived. His hunt had brought him to a smaller nest, a mere outpost on the outskirts of the Buzzard territory. 

It had taken him four days to reach it. Four days of moving through the hours of dawn and dusk, and hiding in faint puddles of shade when the sands burned like molten metal, when the sun was at its cruelest. Four days of turning up rocks and greedily lapping at the dew formed beneath it, muddy droplets of lifewater during the gentle hours of dawn. Four days of burying himself down into the sands during the fiercest hours of the night, becoming a part of the desert itself to avoid the devastating coldness, the air as icy as the light that shimmered down from the stars. He was like a shadow, a pale painted warrior with only the protection of the gleaming metal pipe he had torn from the wreckage, the smooth steel nestled so comfortingly against his palm.

Four days of hunting down scouts. The first one had appeared like a mirage on the first day, startling both himself and the Buzzard boy had taken that unfortunate moment to relief himself, alone except for the motorcycle that glistened next to him. 

Surprise had been his ally. While the boy gaped at him, blinking like a dumb animal, Slit had swung the metal pipe. A sickening crunch and breaking bone, blood flying like the acid rain that sometimes fell from the skies. And then Slit was on him. 

The death wasn’t quick – there was no mercy in his heart. There was only fury, only a monster inside of his chest that screamed with delight at the sight of the blood of his enemy. Blood watered the sands in thick puddles, and by the time Slit was finished, his head was filled with knowledge. It was almost amusing, how quickly a man would spill information when confronted with overwhelming pain, confronted with his own mortality. 

The boy had given him more than information – his pockets had held other treasures. Like a wicked notched blade whose shining skin begged for the taste of blood. Like the canteen filled with water – cool and crisp to wash the sand away from his tongue. It tasted like Life – it tasted like the purity he could sometimes see shining in Nux’s eyes when his friend dreamed about Valhalla.

Slit had left the bandit boy’s body spread over the sands as a warning, limbs tangled and torn, chest ripped open and his heart carved out, a blood painted threat to all of the Buzzards.

He was coming.

It happened over and over again, during those four days. Until it became a twisted sort of game. Find the Buzzards, the fool weaklings who strayed too far from the safety of their mates. Catch them unawares. And hunt them down. 

“Where’s the war boy?” he would snarl each time. Over and over again, while the blade danced and sliced along skin for encouragement, and their begging voices became beautiful music in his ears. Some of them had no idea, their screams filled with an aching confusion, deliciously sweet terror. But a few... They told Slit everything he wanted to know.

And each time, he left their heartless bodies to be swallowed by the desert, each more mutilated than the last.

The sun rose, the sun set, heat and cold twisting into burning shadows, hiding and hunting, filled with nothing but fierce determination, and at last, his feet had brought him to the outpost. 

_Nux,_ his heart whispered into the approaching dusk. _Hold on. I am coming._

A few vehicles were scattered in a haphazard circle, rust and chrome, wicked spikes and glinting glass – vicious machines that meant survival. From his perch, Slit could see what those spikes were protecting. A small campfire, flames dancing to ward off the chill of the approaching night. Two men, clad in layers of battered clothing, one of them cradling a large shotgun to his chest like someone beloved.... And a small metal hatch buried in the sand, a large circular door that led down into the warrens of the bunker below.

The moment of reckoning was upon almost them.

 _Patience,_ he reminded himself, though all he wanted to do was dash forward, a screaming banshee to bring down blood and horror, stabbing and swinging and snarling while destruction burned around him. But now wasn't the time. Darkness would be his ally – under the light of the stars, the shadows would shield his body and he would be able to attack. 

Slit settled down to wait, the moments crawling like hours. Twilight had never felt so far away.

But the desert was listening to his prayers, rewarding his patience with a gift of its own. The wind was rising, no longer a hot, gentle breeze but something fiercer, pulling at his clothes and stirring up thick plums of sand and dust. It was growing stronger, building, like the energy in his chest, crackling, begging for release.

And then he saw it approaching. The wall of sand, roaring down upon the outpost from the opposite direction, a vast swirling cloud of dust. There was no room to escape, no room to run. All he could do was fish into one of his pockets and pull out an old pair of goggles, strapping them to his face. Then he lifted the scarf – Nux’s scarf – to cover his nose and mouth. Down below, the guards had noticed the threat of the storm – they were pointing, shouting at each other, eyes on the force of nature that approached.

He wouldn’t get a better chance than this.

Slit ran, practically sliding down the dunes, blood pounding, heart racing, veins roaring with excitement, his scarred face twisted into a mask of lust.

He made it to the camp at almost the same moment the storm did. One moment, vision was clear. And then the world exploded in a fury of sand and dust. The gusts of wind tore at his skin, sand trying to rip away more of his flesh, a dizzying whirlwind of darkness and grit. It cut into his raw skin, tried to embed its way into his lungs, and all he could do was stumble forwards.

It was beautiful. The power of the storm – the wind howling, screaming, tugging, a confusing, delicious show of savagery. The brutal purity of the desert that echoed the fury inside of him – and he was in the heart of the storm. It urged him on, the vicious screams of the gale winds shrieking like the Buzzards he had slain – 

_Kill,_ the wind screamed at him. _Kill them all._

The desert wanted blood.

And Slit was happy to deliver.

A body emerged from the sand, stumbling almost drunkenly, and Slit howled with joy as he ran, a pale shadow in the storm, the steel pipe gripped tightly in his hands. He swung low. Bone crunched. Snapped. The man fell, clutching his shattered knee. The youth whirled back around, stalking forward.

“Where’s the war boy?” he snarled the familiar words, the grin on his lips twisting his voice into a growl. His eyes were fire, coals smoldering, burning, burning. The man tried to call something out, clawing at the ground, struggling to escape, his gun forgotten. But there was no escaping the storm in the form of a boy, the rage battering his bones. Slit wasn’t truly interested in an answer – he swung the pipe again. And again. Skull shattered. Blood and brains leaked into the sand, a sacrifice to the cruel landscape that protected him. 

He heard a voice in the winds, words he didn’t understand, echoing around him. He crouched over the body, head tilted to listen. The voice was coming closer, though through the chaos, it was impossible to pinpoint a direction. 

He wasn’t prepared for the force that hit him like a nitrous fueled war-engine. One moment, Slit was listening for his prey. The next, he was grappling in the sand with a man on his back, arms locked around his throat, the metal rod flying from his grasp. No air. His head hit the ground, a dizzying snap of pain, and he snarled, rolling over. He lashed out with his elbow, satisfied with the gasp of air as bone connected with his enemy’s stomach. The hold on his neck lessened slightly – just enough to lash his head back as hard as he could. Soft flesh met hard bone. The hold vanished. He rolled to his feet, gasping in a deep breath before he tackled the man. 

This was his world. Brutal. Primitive. Beautiful. He was an artist and violence was his craft – honed to perfection after years of practice. Fists drove into flesh, fingers clawing, bones snapping, teeth sinking into skin like a feral dog, tearing, swearing, unleashing the full force of his ferocity.

“Where’s the war boy?” he screamed through a mouthful of blood.

The man never had a chance.

Slit was breathing hard when he rose to his feet, crimson smeared across his face. Some of the blood was his – most of it not. But his heart was still beating – unlike the two bodies sprawled brokenly across the ground. He was alive – more alive than ever, lightning crackling through his veins, a red crimson dazzle of immortality. Nothing could defeat him. Nothing could stand in his way.

He threw his arms back as if he could present his heart to the desert, daring the storm to reach inside of his chest and pluck it out. “I am Slit!” he screamed into the furious tempest around him. “Witness my glory!”

The storm screamed back its approval, winds howling with the voices of the dead whose bones littered the sand, and he laughed. Pure power. The sheer ferocity of the Wasteland. Wild. Savage. Free. He was a part of the storm and the storm was a part of him.

It spurred him forward. 

Slit spared a few moments to search the bodies, fingers expertly slipping into pockets, padding across fabric for secret stashes of treasures. Most of it was useless to him – bits of metal and ration bars and wrenches and small blades - but one of them carried a very shiny prize. “Beautiful Valhalla,” he breathed when his fingers cradled around the ridged orb of a grenade – wicked, shining – the perfect tool for the artist of pain. 

Now the real fun was going to begin.

It took longer than he expected to stumble across his goal. The winds were still howling, the sand still whirling, lashing – it was hard to see more than a few meters away. He almost stumbled into a metal rusted spike, jutting out from an empty jalopy, but avoided disaster at the last moment. He had gone to far. He turned, retracing his steps. The chaos was a ferocious beauty, and the moments crawled by like hours before he found the smoldering remains of the fire, flames suffocated beneath the weight of the sand. He was close.

There. The door to the burrows. The stark metal almost disappeared beneath the flying dust, obscured by the madness of the storm – but he found it at last, falling to his knees, grasping the metal hatch in both hands. Slit’s shoulders screamed as he jerked it to the side. For a split second, there was a flickering of doubt. What if it was locked from within, barring the bunker from the outside world? 

But with an eerie screech, the door allowed itself to be swung open. Sand and wind whipped down the tunnel – he could see a ladder descending into the depths, and yards below, a faint glow. There was life below.

Slit grinned, and in one easy motion, slipped the pin from his grenade and lobbed it down the little rat hole. Then he waited. _One. Two. Three. Fo-_

The explosion was lovely. A flash of light ripping through the storm, shaking the ground gently, a new wave of dust and smoke emerging from the hole in the ground. The screams from below were lovely too – shrieks of pain and yells of fury, coughs and curses. 

He wanted a few seconds more, and then slung himself down the ladder, landing in a small room crowded with smoke, crouched low to the floor. He could barely breathe, barely see – but the smoke began to fade, dissipating from thick plumes to a hazy fog. 

Three bodies littered the small and cluttered room – missing limbs and shredded skin revealing their closeness to the origin of the blast. The scent of blood and smoke and meat was overwhelming – the smell of war, the shadows of battle, an intoxicating perfume. But there was no time to savor the results of his handiwork – the wooden furniture splintered across the room, still burning, the scorch marks on the metal walls, body parts strewn into every corner, charred and blackened and bleeding.

A yell brought him to his senses, and he laughed as a giant of a man came barreling out from the smoke, a bruised and swollen face hidden behind a tangle of black hair, swinging a club of twisted metal and spiked nails. Slit had only his knife, but he wasn’t afraid. He felt exhilarated, he felt alive, he felt powerful, like he had swallowed the sun and its rays were burning from within.

He ducked beneath the swing of the club, yelling as he darted within the giant’s reach, slashing out with his knife. A howl of pain rang sweetly in his ears as the blade cut through skin. But he had to leap away again when the club returned for another swing, rolling to his feet with practiced ease. The giant was angry now, lumbering forward, blood beginning to stain the fabric of his left sleeve. 

“Come get me,” Slit crooned, urging his opponent forward. The giant had strength over him – but he had speed. He stood on the balls of his feet with a predator’s grace, ready to dart away in a heartbeat. 

But he wasn’t prepared for the Giant to simple hurl the club at his head, metal and spikes sparking in a deadly combination. He ducked, just as the giant lunged. Bodies connected with a sickening thud, and Slit was on his back, air being crushed from his body by the giant that straddled his waist. The knife was still in his grasp, but one thick hand grabbed his wrist, squeezing tightly, bones creaking. Another thick hand simply balled itself into a fist, and pounded at his face. 

He gasped, the world spinning, threatening to go black. _Nux,_ he reminded himself, refusing to let the darkness take hold of him, fighting through the urge to collapse. He couldn’t fail – not when he had come so far. Not when he was this close.

The giant roared, more animal than man, aiming another punch down at the smaller youth below him. Slit’s grasp on the knife was failing, bones screaming. He had to do something, anything - His other hand jerked upwards, grabbing at the only thing he could. Thick, dark hair of a beard. His fingers wove themselves deep into the strands, and he pulled, as hard as he could. 

The giant’s face was inches from his. Slit lunged his head forward, snarling viciously, and teeth sunk into the tender flesh of the giant’s cheek. Blood spilled into his mouth once more, as the giant screamed, lashing out. The world shuddered at each punch, but Slit didn’t let go. And for a heartbeat, the giant’s grip on his wrist loosened. 

It was enough.

Slit spat out his mouthful of flesh, fingers still woven tightly in the thick beard. And plunged the blade into the giant’s throat. There was a shudder as metal slid into tender flesh, scraped against bone, and came to a rest.

He couldn’t forget the look of shock that crossed his enemy’s face – a curious expression of astonished confusion. The light in those brown eyes sparked for a second, and then faded, nothing but glassy pools of chocolate, staring unseen. 

_Life is such a fragile, funny thing,_ Slit thought with amusement as he jerked the blade away, tearing open the giant’s throat.

Blood flowed like water from the citadel, poured like a river of tears, bathing his own body in slick, crimson warmth. He was painted in the lifewater of his enemy. He was the survivor.

The giant’s body sunk down, a heavy mass devoid of life, yet one that threatened to crush him anyways. Slit groaned as he pushed the body away, struggling and slithering until he was free from the corpse’s clutches.

He rose to his feet, a bit unsteadily. And froze as he found himself staring down the barrel of a sawed off shotgun. 

Slit wasn’t the last survivor after all. There was one more, a lean man who wore a mask of desperation. Most of his hair was shorn short, a muddy brownish color – but half of it was gone. The skin on his face was raw and blistered, torn away from the blast of the grenade, blood weeping from exposed flesh that was blackened at the edges. But his eyes were a pale and vivid blue, twin mirrors of pain and rage and a hint of madness.

The warboy didn’t wait for the finger to twitch against the trigger. He hurled his blood-stained blade, and dove. The blade had no aim – it was no true danger. But it served its purpose. The man flinched backwards. The gun went off. And the shot went wild. There was a hiss of pain as buckshot tore into Slit’s shoulder – but most of the metal shrapnel flung harmlessly against the walls. Before the man could aim again, Slit was back on his feet, his hands gripping a new weapon – the twisted metal club that had belonged to the giant. 

He charged. Swung. The man screamed when the sharp nails of the club bit into the flesh of his chest, rusted spikes sinking into skin viciously. The man fell, and Slit fell with him, wrenching the club away and swinging again. 

The blue eyed man screamed as bone crunched, snapped, shattered beneath the force of Slit’s fury, flesh tearing with a sickening wet sound. When Slit rose to his feet, there wasn’t a man laying upon the floor. It was only a broken bag of meat, splinters of bone and dark blood rivering the dirt. But the two blue eyes continued to stare at him sightlessly – frozen open in horror. 

Slit spat upon the body, and pushed himself to his feet. His shoulder was burning, kissed by fire – the buckshot would leave a lovely constellation of stars to pepper his skin. His abused ankle no longer wanted to bear his weight without screams of protest – but he forced it to obey him anyways. He gripped the club tighter, waiting for another survivor to lunge out from the shadows of smoke and the darkness of the tunnel. 

But the silence was deafening. He was alone.

"Nux," he whispered into the darkness. "Hold on. I’m coming."


	5. The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nux is finally rescued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides face* Nux, I am so sorry. But the story demanded it. Four days alone with Buzzards means tons of emotional and physical pain. The next few chapters will have a lot less action, and a lot more angst as Nux comes to terms with his ordeal. Some smut with be thrown in there eventually. I'll try to make it up to you guys by the end, I promise.
> 
> This chapter is much less structured and much more rambling than the others - I wanted to try to keep it more in line with how chaotic and delirious his thoughts would be at this time. Hopefully it's not too all over the place.

His wrists were bleeding again. 

The knowledge hit him dully, barely penetrating the fog that circled his brain. Faint warmth trickling down his arms as the metal shackles tore through the bruised and scabbed flesh of his wrists. He couldn’t even feel the pain.

_It doesn’t matter._

_Nothing matters anymore._

Everything was a haze, dark and blurred with streaks of red. His stomach was empty, but he couldn’t feel the hunger pangs anymore, just a dizzy weakness that made the small room spin whenever he opened his eyes. The ache in his throat for water had become a part of him, dry and harsh like the desert sands themselves. The stab of pain from broken ribs whenever he tried to draw in a breath. The fever that burned inside of him always now, night and day, burning cold and freezing heat. The broken teeth in the back of his jaw, the agony from his cheekbone that spoke of broken bones beneath the eye that was swollen shut, the thick ugly bruises that made him wonder if something inside of him was broken and leaking, the stench of feces and urine and vomit, the burns on his back, the blood scabbed and dried over his body, scabbed to his face, the deep cuts etched into chest.

One cut for every time –

 _No._ His mind skittered away from that dangerous territory, locking it away.

He wasn’t really here. Once upon a time, he had been Nux, the terror of the Fury Road, an honored driver of Immortan Joe’s fleet, the War Boy, filled with fire and laughter and fierce wildness. More machine than man, immortal, destined to live eternal, a warrior with strength as dazzling as flames and a heart of chrome.

Now, he was nothing. Now he was a shadow, a sleg, a coward, a broken mass of bone and blood and weakness and fear, but not tears, never tears. He locked those inside, trapped in a small rusted box inside of his chest where they could not be free. His engine was dead, the fire was gone, extinguished, leaving nothing but a crumpled pile of ash and rust and shame. They could take everything else but they couldn’t take those tears – the only thing that belonged to him anymore. 

He wasn’t scared of death now. He yearned for it. He prayed for it with every moment of consciousness. There would be no Valhalla. No glorious gates, no shiny chrome, no flying down the eternal roads with the wings of the V8 propelling him forward with Slit at his side. 

Valhalla was for Warboys. For heroes. Not slegs like him.

All he wanted was darkness, numbness. All he wanted was the soothing, eternal sleep. He wanted the nothingness to spread over his mind and tuck him in its arms, and let him sink down and dissolve until every inch of him was gone. 

_I don’t want to live again,_ he pleaded with the darkness around him. _Just let me die._

It made them laugh sometimes, when he begged for death. But instead of sliding the knife in deeper with the gift of mercy, they gave him small swallows of water and occasional mouthfuls of slippery, raw meat, just enough to keep his wretched body alive. And then they took their turns with fists and cruelty. 

At first, he had fought. Whenever they got close, he would spit curses and insults, trying to bite them and tear off chunks of flesh with his teeth, lashing out with bare feet, jerking his head to butt at theirs. He had screamed and yelled and jerked at his chains – he had fought the way a War boy should. 

But finally, they had broken him. 

Time didn’t exist here in this hell buried beneath the earth. Hours and days wove together into a tapestry of delirium. Eternity stretched out before him, an infinity of horror and pain, a red-tinged reminder that he was beyond redemption. This was his world now – a hazy kaleidoscope of burning fever and anguished defeat.

But then time held its breath and stood still completely.

The silence was shattered as a roar rocked the storage room. Metal groaned in protest as the walls shook and dust rose from storage crates, his chains rattling together. The light from the dim lantern flickered and wavered, but finally held steady again.

He blinked slowly, shaking his head. Another fever dream? He didn’t even have the energy to be curious. 

And then came the sounds of yells, muffled from beyond the thick metal door of his prison. Yells of anger that turned into screams. _They sound beautiful,_ he thought dreamily. Songs of agony, the sweet release of death, an orchestra as lovely as the riffs that music that tore through the air when the Doof’s fingers danced over guitar strings. They wouldn’t stop – the screams. Echoing in his ears and growing louder, ringing like war drums in his skull, reverberating and shrieking stronger. 

Then a heavy silence. Louder than the screams.

Foot steps approaching.

Now it was his turn, he knew. His death awaited him beyond the door, stalking closer, guaranteed to free him from this prison of bone and shame. There was no fear now – only a sense of relief that spread through his soul, as intense and soothing as cool water against his lips. “Let it be quick,” he prayed to the unknown. 

_Oh great Immortan, let this be the end._

The door swung open with a heavy screeching groan, and a man filled the doorway. Familiar broad shoulders and lean muscles – but coated with crimson instead of white, blood stained and painted, a club gleaming in his fist, covered in gore.

“Nux?”

Dark shadows cradled the edges of his vision, twisting, threatening to drown him in darkness again. There was no energy for disappointment. He had been right. It was another fever dream, another hallucination brought from desperation and pain. How many times had he imagined this, a vision of mercy to end the nightmare? In his dreams, Slit’s dark eyes had been filled with the promise of release, his scarred face twisted into a gentle smile that vowed the gift of eternal rest, a white-painted angel of the wasteland to whisper him into a sleep that would never end. 

But in his dreams, Slit hadn’t been painted in blood, slick crimson wetness shining black in the dim lantern light, a dark fold of cloth wrapped around his neck. Air hadn’t been sucked into the other boy’s lungs in an audible gasp that reverberated through the small storage room. In those dreams, Slit’s face hadn’t been stained with shock – fear and sickness mingling, blossoming into pure horror. 

The truth was beginning trickle into his foggy brain.

_No. Please, no._

Slit had come for him.

He couldn’t even understand what was happening. It wasn't possible. The world seemed blurred and smudged around the edges, like fingers rippling against puddles of oil. Slit was speaking to him, low words that didn’t make any sense, trickling through his mind like water through cupped palms, and then the other boy was at his side. The club was gone and had been replaced with something heavier. Bolt cutters. With only a little bit of force, they cut through the chains that dangled him from the ceiling.

He collapsed to the ground, legs failing. His body screamed at the impact, and his vision swam black. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t understand. It was all wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t what he had prayed for. He was done with his half-life, done with this world, done with pain and blood and darkness. This wasn’t a gift. This was the promise of existence, the promise of suffering disguised as salvation.

“Fuck, mate,” Slit’s whisper echoed with horror and he reached out, fingers hovering about the deep cuts in Nux’s chest, scabbed and weeping blood.

“One cut for every time – “ the words slipped from his cracked lips out of habit. How many times had he heard them said? An endless litany before the dawn of pain.

Slit’s eyes widened in comprehension, and that look – 

_No._ He couldn’t let Slit see him like this, couldn’t let him see that he was broken, see the pathetic shadow thing he had become, this weak and wretched creature with a craven heart. He couldn’t let Slit see his shame, couldn’t let him see the memories of hands burned into his skin like a brand, the blood of his failure painted against his body to mirror the rust inside.

“Get away,” he croaked out harshly, scrambling backwards. His chest was aching and his body was shaking – there was a lump in his throat as if he had swallowed a mouthful of glass, splinters stabbing the tender flesh with each swallow. His eyes burned and he hid his face against a wooden crate, curled his body into itself, knees tucked to his chest and arms wrapped around them tightly.

His eyes were leaking – salt burning the cuts on his face, the cracks in his scarred lips. This was so much worse than he could have imagined, so much worse than death, so much worse than anything he had experienced at the hands of the Buzzard bandits.

Warboys didn’t cry.

He heard a faint shuffle as Slit eased himself closer, and he huddled tighter against the crate as if he could sink into the wood if he tried hard enough. He felt a faint touch on his shoulder, feather light – but it still made him shake.

“What did they do to you?” He had never heard Slit’s voice sound so gentle, had never heard the other boy’s words shake like that, trembling with an emotion he couldn’t name.

He couldn’t hold it back, the rusted box that had held the tears safe, they wouldn’t stop. Cracked open and flowing, hot and burning, and a sob ripped from his chest like a bullet. Then it was a storm, shoulders shaking and gasping for air, tears and blood and snot, all pouring down his wretched face, badges of shame. 

“Kill me,” he whispered, trying to hid his face, words torn from his throat in shuddering gasps. “I don’t – I don’t want to do this any – any more.”

And suddenly, Slit’s forehead was pressed against his, their breath mingling together, and the boy’s hand was on the nape of his neck, fingers brushing over his brand, holding him close, holding him tight. “Never,” Slit growled fiercely, his words trembling with urgency. “You an’ me – we go to Valhalla together.”

 _Valhalla doesn’t want me,_ Nux wanted to say, but the words died inside of his chest before they could tumble from his lips.

All he could do was cling to Slit and cry.


	6. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warboys return home to the Citadel, but everything has changed. And Slit cannot understand why Nux is pushing him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys. This chapter is really rushed and definitely not my strongest. But I'm just really excited to get to the next few chapters. ^_^

They had returned to the Citadel, hailed as heroes by the other War boys who envied their story of blood and rage. The details were blurred – Slit spoke about his prowess in the desert and how Nux had been found in chains – spitting fire and curses and never wavering. How, once freed, they had joined forces to slay their enemies, laughing at the carnage they left behind, returning home in a stolen jalopy. Lancer and driver defeating all who dared to stand before them, all who dared to doubt the ferocity of the Citadel.

Nux said nothing when the falsehoods tumbled from his friend’s lips. He just closed his eyes and turned away.

Slit kept the truth hidden like a cache of sweets to be protected from all other eyes. He spoke nothing of the tears that had shone against Nux’s cheeks, starlit rivers of pain in the dim lantern light. He said nothing of the pleas for death, the bone-shuddering sobs that had shattered through Nux’s shoulders, the exact nature of the torture he had endured. They were his secrets to protect.

All he could offer was the gift of silence.

The Organic Mechanic easily saw the truth of the torture that seemed tattooed into Nux’s skin – he had seen a lifetime of the brutality and cruelty of the Wasteland. But his heart had turned to stone within his chest long ago, and his silence was bred from apathy, shrugging while he bandaged and stitched the broken war boy back together. But his needles and thread could only weave through flesh – they couldn’t begin to touch the wounds that lingered much deeper, cradled against the bone.

Slit waited helplessly for seven days while Nux recuperated under the Organic Mechanic’s watch. His own wounds had been easily taken care of – shards of shrapnel carefully fished out from his flesh with tweezers, some haphazard stitches and a few clean bandages slapped over his abrasions – while Nux’s wounds were severe enough to warrant his own bunk and a silently weeping blood bag to fill his veins with life and strength.

Every time he went to visit Nux in the infirmary, the boy was curled up on his side with his face towards the damp wall, a tattered blanket curled up over his shoulders. Nux wouldn’t answer his whispers, feigning sleep – but Slit had slept beside him since they were pups. The breathing was too steady, too shallow – he knew his friend was laying awake behind his closed eyes. 

Still, he had unwoven the fabric from around his neck – he had used a day of water rations to scrub it clean from sand, though the stains of blood had soaked in too deep – and draped it down onto Nux, the cloth puddled against his palms. It had been the boy’s most cherished treasure and Slit hoped it would give him strength again. He saw a glint of light – the crescents of lashes fluttered open for a brief, bare moment – and Nux had recoiled, shoving the scarf away as if it burnt his skin. 

Slit couldn’t explain the way his stomach twisted and knotted, falling to the ground with a sickening woosh. He leaned down to scoop the fabric off of the floor. When he straightened, Nux’s eyes were closed once more, his breathing as steady and slow as if he had never moved at all.

_He’s confused,_ Slit reassured himself, as he looped it around his neck once more. _When the pain meds wear off, he’ll want it then. Everything will go back to normal._

When Nux was strong enough to grip a wrench, he was released from the Infirmary and sent down to the dark pits as a Repair Boy where he could lose himself amongst steel and sparks while his body continued to heal. Slit had given a whoop of joy when the news had reached his ears, and he had torn through the corridors like a whirlwind in his excitement to be reunited with his partner. Everything will go back to normal now. But Nux hadn’t been in the bunks. Hadn’t been in the messhalls, hadn’t been in the sparring grounds. It was as if he had disappeared. And all he had left of his partner was that stained and tattered scarf.

Everything had changed. The days bled together, and as blackened purple bruises faded into ugly greens and mottled yellows, Slit was forced to recognize the truth.

Nux had returned to the Citadel – but HIS Nux had been left behind in the desert dunes, trapped in the prison of metal beneath the sand. This wasn’t his Nux with his wild laugh and howls of joy and taunting punches, his soft deference as fingers wove together in reverence to the glory of the V8.

This boy wore Nux’s skin, but Nux’s eyes had never looked so haunted. This Nux never laughed, except for an occasional bark filled with bitterness that made Slit’s stomach tangle and ache. This boy wasn’t the wind, soothing and calm. This boy burned from within. Slit’s fire was the clean, bright flames that could lash into an inferno – but Nux’s fire was colder, flickering with shadows, threatening to burn bone into ash at any moment, an exhausted tangle of apathy and lightning. 

This Nux was a ghost – a mirage that flickered on the edges of his vision, but disappearing when he turned his head. He was like fragment of the imagination, a fever dream, like a shadow that slipped through Slit’s fingers. Gone. As if he had never been here at all.

Slit slept in their bunk alone, cold stone cradling his body, the hard surface whispering tales of the familiar warmth that was missing. Nux never returned to the bunks for sleep. Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of him in the messhalls, the familiar scarred lips pressed into a frown – but the moment Nux became aware of his presence, he would slip away like sunlight over the horizon. Nothing more than a faded dream. 

What was a lancer without his driver? What was a Warboy without his partner, the boy with whom he had shared lifetimes of hardship and pain and training and secrets? Bonded by blood and tears and sweat and brushes with death. Closer than family, twinned hearts beating in two bodies. What was a lancer without his heart? 

Finally, Slit could take it no longer.

He followed Nux down to the repair bays, unable to take another moment of the silence, desperate for answers. He found the boy kneeling on the ground beside a torn and twisted tire, attached to a rusted car that had recently seen the losing end of a raid. Nux’s shoulders stiffened – he could sense Slit’s presence behind him, but his gaze remained on the lug wrench in his hands, grunting softly as he loosed lug nuts, one by one, and dropping them into a small container at his feet.

Slit rocked on the balls of his feet, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt like he was going into battle. Except there were no weapons, no screaming enemies, no spears cradled in his hands. It was just Nux. He had never felt as terrified as he did right then.

“What’s going on?” he finally said, his voice quiet, wishing they weren’t surrounded by dozens of Repair Boys hard at work. But at least the cacophany of pounding and cutting and grinding metal provided them with the illusion of privacy.

Nux stopped, his hand frozen on the wrench, every muscle twisted tight, thrumming with tension. The moment of silence between them stretched, until Slit thought it would shatter the air itself. Finally, a soft exhalation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words were heavy, rolling slowly out of Nux’s mouth as if each syllable was carved from of stone.

After weeks of silence, he wanted to savor the sound of Nux's voice. But the lies inside of it only made the confused sense of loss grow stronger. Its intensity stole his breath. Frustration lashed out, and Slit couldn’t help the anger bleeding into his words. “Bullshit. You’re hiding.” 

It was the wrong thing to say, the wrong tone, striking against Nux’s mind like a spark. The wrench clattered to the ground, and then Nux was standing before him, just feet away, so close that Slit could reach out and trace fingers over his skin. It hurt, a physical pain in his chest. His partner was so close, yet never had he felt so far away. Separated by worlds, memories, frustrations, pain. Nux’s eyes felt wrong – pupils too large, slightly glazed, yet still brimming with fury, anguish, resentment, a pain there were no words for.

“I’m not hiding,” Nux hissed. The vicious bruises on his face had faded into an ugly mottled green, visible even beneath a fresh layer of white clay

Slit folded his arms over his chest, his teeth clenching as if those pearls could cage the fury before it could spill over. “Could have fooled me,” he gritted out.

Nux leaned closer, their faces inches apart, and his glare was worse than the pain of buckshot searing into his shoulder. “Can’t you take a hint, Slit?” His words dripped with venom, poison to sear the flesh. “I don’t want to see you.” They were crystalled with ice, each syllable a carefully aimed blade to the heart.

Slit jerked backwards as if he had been stabbed. His chest felt as if it was collapsing in on itself, as if the empty hollow beneath his ribs was growing, spreading. He couldn’t draw in oxygen for a moment, just staring at the boy in front of him. This wasn’t his Nux. This was someone else. A stranger staring back with Nux’s eyes.

_I rescued you,_ his heart screamed into the silence. _Sun and cold and storms couldn’t stand in my way. I bled for you. I killed them. I tore them apart with my bare hands to save you._

But the words stayed trapped against his tongue, crumbling into dust before they could breathe into life.

He didn’t need to say them. They had been too close for too long. Nux could read them clearly in his gaze. The other youth’s eyes flickered for a moment – a flame of guilt, perhaps – and then he lowered his gaze, turning his attention back to the car before him. When he spoke, his voice no longer filled with fury. It was tired and bitter, an old man in the form of a boy. “I never asked for any of this, Slit,” he sighed, his words weighed down with centuries of exhaustion. “Just... Just go away. I’ve got work to do.”

Slit had never fled from a brawl or a battle or even an army of raiders. But he fled now, before surprise and pained confusion could break into anger, before he said things that could never be unsaid.

He had lost Nux after all.

He stalked through the corridors, his eyes barely taking in the familiar damp stone. Slit’s muscles were coiled, crackling, lightning beneath the surface threatening to sear anyone unlucky enough to be standing nearby. The other Warboys gave him one glance, and pressed themselves against the walls, not risking to brush against his shoulder and give him an excuse to lash out, to turn his frustration out on anyone standing too close. 

His feet knew exactly where to go. By the time Slit stepped outside of the Citadel, the pain had morphed into something uglier. Fury. Blinding fury that made him shake, made him want to scream at the sunlit skies and batter his fists against the stone of the Immortan’s fortress. Rage tasted almost sweet when compared to the anguished frustration of the last few weeks, the pained confusion.

Nestled amongst the sand, a circle of broken bounders and jagged rock created a sparring grounds. Large posts held human forms – some of them comprised of only tattered cloth to form dummies, while a few of the posts held more unfortunate victims – living humans who had earned the Immortan’s ire, yet who didn’t merit the importance of a public execution. Warboys held smooth spears in their hands, practicing their aim and learning to make the wood sing in flight. Some boys sparred with blades, though fights only lasted until first blood. Others brawled with their fists. A handful of pups were at the far side of the ring, listening intently as an older Boy gravely explained the more vicious aspects of wrestling – how to cause the most damage when one had no weapon except his own body.

Slit’s arrival caught the attention of several of the Warboys who weren’t lost in training, those who had drifted to the sparring grounds just for the release of a good fight.

“You,” Slit growled to one of them, a larger boy who stood two hands taller and outweighed him by a good fifteen kilos. “And you.” This was directed towards a skinnier youth his own size, a wiry form hinting at speed, rather than strength. 

There was no need for further words. They stepped forward, eager to prove their prowess against the new hero. A simple fight. No weapons. No tricks. Two against one.

The trio circled each other in the sand, eyes darting, weighing, searching for every sign of weakness. The rage was singing now, battle lust rising, the monster within desperate for release. Nux’s words were replaying in his mind, rising from a whisper into a scream.

He lunged forward. 

Three warboys had to leap in to break up the brawl. He fought as their hands pulled him away, swinging and snarling and out for blood. The larger boy was left weeping through a broken jaw in the sands. The smaller boy’s forearm was bent where it shouldn’t have, ivory bone splinters breaking through the skin, bruises swelling beneath the clay.

“Who’s next?” Slit snarled. The rage had only grown stronger.

No one would step forward to face him. They could see murder in his eyes.


	7. The Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nux struggles to deal with his shadows in the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: There is a scarification scene in this chapter, and although I know it is a ritual in the culture of the Warboys, this one also kind of blurs the line from ritual into self-harm. Please don't read this if that subject takes you to a dark place! *hugs* I find scarification to be a fascinating process, so I went into a little more detail than maybe I should have, though I tried to avoid the squickiest physical details and stick with mainly the thought process. 
> 
> Also, there are references to drug use. And the overall sad topic of dealing with the aftermath of a rape. This entire story is basically one big long trigger warning. :(
> 
> BUT, there is a little bit of a tender scene at the end for those of you who make it through this big, long chapter!

Nux spent every moment down in the Repair Bays, surrounded by busted vehicles and spare parts, bringing life back into the machines who had seen too much battle – coaxing fading engines back into a roar, patching bullet holes punched through metal doors, welding scrap together to form armored skin, scrubbing blood off of seats. His world was comprised of a sea of sparks that glittered through the smokey air like stars.

It was almost a comfort to have a wrench back in his hand and grease streaked across his brow, mingling with sweat and determination. It gave him focus. For a few blissful hours out of every day, he could lose himself. Step outside of his skin and slip away from his mind, and become a part of the machines he loved so much. 

The hours felt too short. If Nux had had his way, he would spend every spare second in this haven, surrounded by machinery and loud shouts and clangs, a world where everything had a purpose and everything broken could be fixed. But eventually, his hands would start trembling, his body would start aching while morning blurred into evening, and the Repair Chief would jerk his head towards the door, dismissing him from duty until another dawn, gruffly reminding him to fuel up on food and sleep before returning again.

That was the worst time of the day. The moment Nux stepped outside of the haven of the Repair Bays, the shadows would swarm again, pouncing and snaring his mind with their clawed fingers, reminding him of all the things he wished so desperately to forget. The warboy couldn’t fuel up. Food turned to ash against his tongue, swelling in his throat and making him choke. Sleep was even more futile – a few faint hours of thrashing and crying out, jolting upright, his pants soaked with sweat and clinging to his body. Nux avoided the bunks as much as possible – avoided the nightmares, avoided Slit. He was always running on empty.

His thoughts overwhelmed him, an ocean of memories that threatened to pull him under. He felt like he was drowning. His ribs felt battered from the power of it all, the darkness under his skin, the rust within. When Nux’s eyelids fluttered closed, merciless blue eyes stared back at him and his chest started burning like it was being kissed by a knife once more. He felt like he was still trapped within the bunker, still dangling from the chains, waiting for the next moment of horror to arrive.

He wandered the citadel like a shadow. It was easy to find rotgut – the boys who thrived on pain and violence always had an abundance of substances to enthrall the senses – or numb them completely. Harsh alcohol would burn down his throat, a fire that warmed his insides with a comforting glow, made thoughts blur together and turn sluggish. It was effective – if he drank enough, sometimes Nux could even manage to tumble into an exhausted slumber for a few hours, more of a coma than proper sleep. Other times, the numbness became too overwhelming, always traced with the promise of shadows lurking beneath, and he needed help of a different sort. One of the War Boys, named Spike for the vicious nails implanted beneath the shaved ridges of his scalp, forming a small mohawk of metal from forehead to crown – Spike always knew how to get ahold of the blue dust that gave a completely contrasting solace. It looked like the sky had been crushed down into pale powder, and all it took was a small thumbnail of dust and a deep inhalation to set the veins dazzling with fractaling crystal, a different sort of warmth flooding the blood, and he felt as more energized and alive than he had ever felt before.

Sometimes, he felt the ghosts of hands sliding against his skin, leaving trails of dirt across his flesh, and the scent of sour sweat overpowered his nostrils. That’s when he would find the nearest Warboy, as if their hands could burn deeper than the past – overpower the ghosts and replace them with something else. Something meaningless and rough and hollow – something he could control.

Nux tried not to think about Slit. Tried to avoid the messhall where he would run into his partner, the sparring grounds, the weapons room. He couldn’t face those dark eyes again, stained with horror and the pain that echoed his own. Every time he caught a glimpse of his friend, he could feel the hurt and frustration radiating from Slit’s body, sinews twisted in cables of emotion he couldn’t release, and the pangs of guilt were teeth sawing at his soul. But still... It was easier to turn away, rather than confront those eyes, confront the memories, confront the resentment of the heart still beating within his chest. He was rust now, a shadow cowardsleg boything – he couldn’t taint Slit with his own brokenness. His heart was still beating but he was dead inside. It was better this way, the warboy knew.

So he suffocated his daylight hours in grease and metal, and drowned the night in alcohol and dust. Nux was burning, like a fever under the skin, flames of desperation licking through his veins. He was going to crumble into ash at any moment – and that realization brought a strange sense of peace. 

Dusk had fallen, night beginning to smudge itself into the sky. And Nux was alone with his thoughts again, wandering the cold, damp halls of the citadel as if navigating the vast labyrinth could somehow help navigate the treacherous cage of his mind. His hand was curled around a canteen, which he brought up to his lips every few moments, taking a swig of rotgut. Spike was always ready to trade alcohol for a ration of water – or other things. The first few gulps always burnt his throat, made him cough and sent his eyes watering from the fumes. But after that, it went down smooth enough. 

He took a swig, feet scraping against the cold, stone floor. Warboys pushed past him through the corridors, practically bouncing off of the walls with their exuberance, their yells and harsh laughter sounding like a chorus of blades, cutting and sharp. Solitude was hard to come by in the Citadel – the higher levels were reserved for the Immortan and his shining brood and chrome wives, and those honored enough to serve them. The lower levels belonged to the Imperators and the Organic Mechanic and the wild tribe of Warboys – like a nest of ants, always pressed against the bodies of the others, always swarming, always moving. 

He took another swig. Warmth was spreading its fingers through his chest, rivering through his limbs. Solitude. That was all he wanted. 

The rotgut was working thoroughly by the time Nux found a faint sanctuary – a mostly forgotten corridor deep within the labyrinth where the lanterns burned low, and the floor was caked with dust, the ceiling threaded with cobwebs. Occasionally, boys would seek this corner for a quick fuck like rutting animals, but right now, it was blissfully empty. For the moment, it was his, and he rested his back against the wall and slide down to the floor, savoring the silence. 

Moments passed, drifted away like sand in the wind. Time had forgotten this corner of the citadel, held its breath to create a fragile dream of peace. But peace never lasted long enough – the shadows were always lurking, waiting for his guard to drop. He could feel them, always lingering, chittering at the corners of his mind, whispers and taunts and memories like sawblades, threatening to rip him apart.

Nux took a deep breath, tilting his head and reaching down to fumble with the pockets of his pants, once more weighted down with the usual odds and ends that most Repair Boys carried. Tools, bits of string, bolts, washers, a blade – and another special treasure he had pocketed earlier that morning: a large mirror shard broken from a busted side mirror. He had liked the way it caught the light of the lanterns, sending a star across the walls, gleaming silver like chrome before it burst into a rainbowed ribbon of color. One beautiful treasure amongst a sea of ugliness.

He wished he was chrome. Cold and numb, shining so beautifully amidst the harsh rusty world, the only pure thing that existed anymore. No shadows. He wished he could peel back his skin. Replace his blood with guzzaline and his heart with a fuel pump, sparkling mechanical man instead of a boy, all wires and gears and belts and steel instead of muscles and sinews and weak, fragile meat. 

A thought began to curl its way through the fuzzy tangle of the warboy’s mind. So slow and gentle, it took a few seconds to actually comprehend. Skin into metal, rust into chrome. Become something more than meat and pain and sorrow. Something pure. 

_I want to be something more than this,_ his heart begged, throwing the plea out into the universe like a drowning man grasping desperately for a rope.

One hand lifted, as if it had a mind of its own, moving automatically to bring his thought to life. A fingernail carefully sketched a line into his war paint, little bits of clay flaking away like ash to reveal a pale blush of skin beneath. It was hard to draw out each flowing line, each stark angle when the rotgut was making his mind swim, waves cresting and crashing and a heavy current struggling to pull him under. He fought the current, keeping his gestures slow. Steady. His fingers trembled slightly when they uncovered the tender flesh of his fresh scars – Nux had memorized their ridges, each one burnt against his fingertips like embers.

But he knew the V8 engine as if it was a part of him, knew every single bolt better than he knew the workings of his own body. The two cylinder banks, the valves, the fuel injectors, each gear with their toothed rims. There was no way he could capture its complexity, its slick beauty, its glorious promise – but he could capture its shadow, embrace its spirit and beg it to become apart of him.

The mirror was small, the shard fitting easily in the palm of his hand, and Nux shifted his grip to get a better glimpse of his reflection. It was easier to sketch now. Easier to line up each line like a careful puzzle pieces, sliding into its proper place. When the sketch was finished, bits of his war paint peeling away like burnt skin, he felt a strange grin curl around his lips, more grimace than smile.

He took another gulp of the rotgut – the canteen was half empty now, sloshing around beneath dented mental with the promise of peace. He wanted the extra courage to face what was next.

Nux plucked his blade from another pocket, a handle as dark as onyx and polished smooth from decades of palms running over its surface. His thumb brushed against a small button – he pushed, and the sharp, gleaming blade snapped out from its hiding place, shimmering with promise.

This was a ritual as familiar to the Warboys as the sight of the sands around them, as vital as the water they were all addicted to. Almost every War Boy had self-inflicted scars kissing their bodies, silver ridges snaking like cords under the skin. A symbol of courage. Of strength. Blood and pain were nothing to be feared. They were to be embraced. And the Boys wore their Strength upon their flesh with the same pride that they wore their brands. 

He reached upwards, the tip of the blade coming to a rest against the pink skin revealed beneath his clay. He pressed downwards, dragging the sharp edge tentatively across flesh. Not good enough. Nux pressed hared, and the skin split like paper, rubies blooming across ivory. It burned warmly, and a gasp tore its way from his throat. His eyelids fluttered, dark moths against alabaster cheeks.

He paused a moment, shifting his grip on the handle of the blade, and continued, tracing over the pattern he had etched into the clay. It should have hurt more. Logic told him that. He had been Scarred before – gritting his teeth against curses while Slit made the precise incisions that would grow into badges of honor. 

But it didn’t hurt this time. At least, not in the same way. The blade felt like a silver-tongued kiss, and the beads of blood that welled up were mesmerizing, curling themselves into stained glass ribbons and slowly falling. His scarred lips parted, a soft sigh trickling from between them. It was like drawing in the sand, like turning his face into the wind. Soothing.

The first lines were tentative – until the blade caught at the thick, tender flesh of the newly healed scars. For a moment, Nux’s grip wavered. He remembered those cold blue eyes. His own screams echoing against metal walls. Their hands, smothering and scalding and bringing worlds of pain, leaving streaks of dirt against his soul.

_One cut for every time._

He steeled himself, and pressed harder. They had branded themselves into his skin, deep against his bones. But he would replace their shadows with chrome. He would take his flesh back. Tearing through the scars didn’t feel soothing – it felt like fire, scorching flames he could feel licking through every nerve. Nux hissed. For a moment, his vision swam. Then he was through the thick flesh of the scars. 

He put more weight on the blade, savoring the flames of pain now nuzzling across his skin, dazzling like bluedust, charred desire, metallic and pure. At least right now, he could feel something, something over than the heavy choking numbness of a deadened heart gone cold beneath its cage of ribs. His blood was pouring across skin in rivulets, tiny branches reaching out, growing thicker like vines wanting to root into the earth. It was hypnotic – watching the rust weep from cuts, as if each drop shed was an act of purification, bleeding out the ghosts that had claimed him as their own. Each sanguine pearl was a sacrifice, a prayer offered up in return for strength. They were the tears he couldn’t shed.

_I want to something more than **this**._

It wasn’t an easy task. The design was so large, intricate in spite of its simplicity, and the night began to fade before he was finished – his careful carving into the clay of his own body. And when Nux was finished, the raw flesh screamed against the open air and his heart was pounding with a strange euphoria. Everything hurt and burned, but the pain was a clean one, not smothered in shadows but pure like chrome. 

He finished off the canteen to celebrate, savoring the flush of pride at his accomplishment. Warboy victorious. If only he could carve away the rest of his weakness the way he had carved away ribbons of skin. Still... It was a start.

Even in the throes of intoxication, Nux knew the proper way to proceed. He had to keep the wounds shiny, keep them as few of dirt and grime as he possibly could for a few days. The Organic Mechanic always had a steady supply of bandage – they weren’t exactly sterilized, weren’t exactly always clean – but it was better than the tattered remains of clothing, stained with sweat and oil and the ever present sand.

Bandages. He would make his way up to the Infirmary, and grab some clean gauze and within a few days, when the wounds stopped weeping their yellow-tinged tears, and scabs began to crust over like a shell, they would be ready to be torn open again, and again, and again. And when they were finally allowed to heal, the results would be magnificent. 

Nux pushed himself up onto his unsteady feet, his body swaying like a pole cat, the world shifting before his eyes. After a moment, it calmed again, and he dared a step forward. So far, so good. His hand reached out, seeking the strength of the cold wall, letting his fingers trail and ripple over its surface. Something steady to keep him rooted when the corridors shifted and quivered in front of his eyes, a dizzying spiral.

He was too drunk, he realized slowly. Or perhaps it was the blood rivering down his chest, smeared into the clay, the edges already clotting and scabbed like blackened pebbles. Whatever the reason, walking was suddenly requiring more concentration and determination than it ever had before. His limbs felt weak, helpless, and he felt a wave of revulsion for his own pathetic frailty. 

At least the corridors were empty now – dawn wasn’t far away. Most of the Citadel was sleeping, and those who still lay awake beneath the faint stars were lost in their own worlds. No one was around to watch Nux’s awkward shuffle through the halls, the stumbles as feet caught against edges of stone, his slow crawl forward. But each step was more difficult than the last, and each movement was beginning to make the world spin more intensely.

He stumbled, tried to catch himself against the wall, but found himself on his knees, fingers attempting to dig into stone like dirt. His stomach lurched, threatened to crawl its way up his throat, an overwhelming queasiness that begged to erupt from his lips. 

And suddenly, there was an arm slipping around his waist, white painted and smooth and cool against fevered flesh. He blinked slowly, owlishly, and glanced upwards. 

“You’ve got to be the biggest idiot in this whole damned place.” 

Of course, it was Slit. 

Nux closed his eyes, sighing heavily and pressed his forehead against the cold palms of the stone floor. A sea of shame warred with nausea, battled with the pain of his chest – mortified that Slit would be the one to see him as weak and helpless as a sprog. How had he found him?

“Go away,” he groaned, even as he felt Slit lift him to his feet. His body swayed again, as if trying to decide whether it liked its position on the ground better. But warm hands held him steady. Kept him from falling, tumbling into a world of shadows.

Slit swore. Nux could hear the exasperation in his partner’s voice as he noticed the freshly weeping wounds, the raw lattice of torn flesh across his mangled chest. Nux peered out from between a fringe of lashes. Yes. Slit was upset, though he was struggling to keep it contained. He waited for the lecture he knew was about to follow. Something about his foolishness, how his brains must be leaking, perhaps how the Organic Mechanic wouldn’t give him another Blood Bag if he wasn’t going to at least TRY to keep the blood he already had.

But he was surprised when all Slit did was sigh, a slow inhalation heavy with a thousand unspoken words. 

“I would’ve helped you, y’know,” the larger boy grumbled, lifting one of Nux’s arms and draping it over his own broad shoulders, his other arm still curled around the drunken youth’s waist.

“I don’t need your help.” The words came out sharper than Nux intended, syllables raw and edged with jagged teeth, and the world dipped again, spun violently in a blur of colors. He clutched at Slit, trying to use sheer force of will to keep the sickness from overwhelming him. He wouldn’t throw up in front of the other boy. He couldn’t. That one last shred of dignity was all he could cling to. 

“Of course, you don’t,” Slit’s mutter reached his ears, as bitter as weeds struggling to thrive their way into a water-less world, only to have their tentative grasp on life crushed beneath an uncaring boot. But Slit didn’t release his grip and let him sink back to the floor, didn’t falter. “C’mon. I’m not gonna carry you the whole way.”

Nux focused down on his feet again. One step. Two steps. He didn’t want to admit it, but it was easier this time with Slit to anchor him to the floor, to give him balance, a compass to lead the way. Two pairs of feet shuffling forward in slow, cautious steps, tracing a path as familiar to him as his own name. There were no more words, just a soothing silence occasionally broken by drunken stumbles. Nux had forgotten his earlier quest for bandages – it seemed unimportant now. All that mattered was placing one foot in front of the other.

Exhaustion was creeping through the dizziness, and Nux almost felt grateful to discover that Slit had led him back to the Warboys’ sleeping quarters, the cavernous rooms etched with stone bunks like catacombs for the breathing, the soon-to-be dead. It felt like centuries since he had been here, since he had shared a bunk with his driver, drifting off to sleep with whispers and low laughter and snores and weeping and moans murmuring in his ears – the comforting sounds of his brothers lulling him into the dreamlands.

Climbing into their bunk was more difficult than the painfully slow trek to get there – the scabbed blood streaked down his chest cracked like marble as he pulled himself up, using the lower bunks like a ladder. Nux stepped on someone’s outstretched hand – the boy threw curses at him in the dark, but he subsided into grumbles when Slit’s palm flicked out in a lazy whack. The drunken climb felt like an eternity, but he felt a flush of victory when he finally rolled into the bunk they had claimed years ago.

Slit eased in beside him, taking his usual place closest to the edge. When they were pups, Nux had constantly rolled over that same edge, dreams shattered into bruises as the stone ended and his body plummeted to the harsh stone floor below. Finally, annoyed from too many nights of sleep shattered by his partner’s curses, Slit had insisted on switching places – his body a shield that kept the other boy from falling into empty space.

Nux closed his eyes, savoring the coolness of the stone, like water pouring over the ridges of his spine. It felt pure. The darkness of the bunk was a nest, a haven of safety. For a brief moment, he felt as if he had crawled back to Before, back to when he was still Nux, fierce and wild and whole. 

“It’s gonna look shiny,” Slit broke the silence. He was nothing but a dark shadow beside him, rimmed with moonlight. Nux could feel the other’s eyes upon him, the careful study of the wounds that would bloom into something stronger. “Three days of healin’ an’ you’ll start scabbin’ up real good. Then you can start rubbin’ it with salt. Break away them scabs. The longer it takes to heal, the more shiny it’ll be.”

Nux flailed one arm out to smack Slit in the side. “I’m not a pup,” he retorted. “This ain’t my first Scar.” There was that feeling again, the strange tugging sensation. Caught between two worlds, two times – one foot in the past and one foot in the present. It was disorienting, reality spiraling out from his grasp, shattered threads dangling from grasping fingers. It felt like Before. 

His body began to tremble, slight tremors shimmering through his muscles, and suddenly, he wanted to run. Wanted to stumble away from the bunk, away from Slit and the strange conversation that felt so normal, and yet only reminded him of how everything had changed, how his entire being had shattered into a thousand splinters and the pieces were lost in the desert beneath the sands.

Slit sensed the change, the sudden tension, the shivers curling their way through the other boy’s body. He slung an easy arm across Nux’s waist, as if strength could sink from his fingertips and into the flesh of the broken boy beside him. 

“You can hide away again tomorrow,” Slit said softly, so strangely gentle for such a fierce boy. His voice sounded like cracked marbles, glass shards shrouded in velvet, burnt sunshine against the tongue. “Just... For tonight... Try to get a little bit of sleep.”

Nux was ashamed at the weakness in his veins, the flaw within him that made him ache to stay, the desire to embrace this fantasy as truth for just a few hours. To pretend nothing had happened. The warmth of Slit’s arm calmed the tremors, the way shadows fled from the brightness of a torch.

_Selfish,_ his mind whispered to him. _Don’t taint him with your rust._

But his bones were threaded with exhaustion – his marrow ached with fatigue, collapsing beneath the combination of alcohol and scarring and weeks of carrying the burden of his pain like shackles, an albatross of shame weighted around his neck. He just wanted to forget it all.

“Just a few hours,” he whispered, even as sleep began to weave its fingers through his mind, slowing down his thoughts and steadying his breathing into something slow and gentle.

For the first time in a long time, Nux slept without dreams.


	8. The Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nux tries to bury his feelings beneath drugs and sex.
> 
> Slit does not approve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! It has been forever and a day since I've updated this story, and I just can't rest knowing that it is unfinished! So here's another step towards getting it complete! Sorry it's super rusty and a more than a little bit rough in spots - it's been a while since I've had a chance to write so I'm still trying to clear out the cobwebs! Hopefully the next chapter will be better and not as all over the place!

One night of peace, amongst weeks of pained confusion and overwhelming frustration. The night he had discovered Nux, drunk and bleeding in the corridors, and helped him back to the bunk like a young warpup who had stumbled into an older boy’s stash of rotgut... He hadn’t been able to sleep. With his arm slung over Nux’s waist, he could feel every deep inhalation, and the constant tangled knot of anger that rested in his chest... It loosened a little, untangling gently and leaving a soothing sort of peace in its wake. Peace was fairly unknown to Warboys, stolen moments of comfort amongst the fierce joy of war... And Slit fought his heavy eyes, refusing to let sleep steal him away. All he could do was watch Nux, memorizing the way the shadows had deepened between his ribs, the way his collarbone dipped below his throat, the cracked lips parted gently as air escaped. Nux looked gentle when he slept, as vulnerable and innocent as a pup, shrugging away the weight of horror he had endured.

He wanted to memorize the dream before dawn returned and Nux slipped away again, nothing more than a shadow. 

The hours faded too quickly, and he felt the other boy stir gently beneath his arm. He closed his eyes, feigning sleep, even allowing a breathy soft snore. Dawn had arrived – the dream was over, and there was no use in clinging to it, in begging for it to stay. Dreams couldn’t be caged – they were meant to dissolve in the light of the sun. 

So he said nothing, even as Nux carefully wiggled out from beneath his arm, easing himself over Slit’s prone body, and slipped over the edge of the bunk. Gone.

All Slit could do was roll over, pressing his body against the stone that still held the warmth of Nux, trying to breathe in the familiar scent that was fading too quickly. His fists clenched tight. 

One moment of peace amongst weeks of agony. Faded like the dawn, as if it had never arrived. Once again, Nux was invisible. A ghost. Flickering at the edges of Slit's vision, though each one of his senses cried out in awareness of the other boy's absence.

How had he never noticed Nux’s presence before? Nux had been a part of his world for almost as long as he could remember – as constant as his own shadow, as familiar as the labyrinth warren of citadel corridors. Now, he saw Nux everywhere. Every war pup seemed to have Nux’s wild spirit, every black thumb carried the scent of grease and oil that Slit missed, every patrol out into the Wasteland was hollow without the second half of his team. Nux was everywhere – and yet he was nowhere.

Days passed, a blur of smoggy heat and dusty sand. Emptiness with fangs of lonely boredom – those sunken days stretching into weeks. Nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. And yet, he couldn't accept it, haunting the places where he might catch a glimpse of his old friend – the forgotten corridors, the echoing cavern of the mess halls, the dark pits of sparks and grease that made up the Repair Bays. Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of Nux, and the sight of those familiar blue eyes and lean body taunt with focus as he leaned over a dilapidated vehicle – it was like a gasp of oxygen, enough sustenance to last through a few more days. Sometimes, he would find himself down in the Repair Bays after hours, the dark hollows gone quiet and empty when the hush of sleep fell over the Citadel. He would find the familiar corner that was Nux's territory, scattered with shards of twisted metal littering the ground like seeds, although he kept each of his beloved tools carefully cleaned and organized. The constant flux of pain and rage would fade a little then, when he sat, alone, surrounded by Nux's cherished tools in Nux's own sanctuary.

That was where Slit was now. His eyes closed, arms clasped loosely around spread knees, his head tilted back to rest against Nux's latest project – the shell of a car, rusted and scorched, yet slowly morphing into something fiercely powerful. It would be beautiful when it was finished, but now, it looked more corpse than car, like it had gasped its last breath long ago. Still, Nux was bringing it back to life. Slit could feel his friend's presence here, in this den beneath the earth, surrounded by the scent of guzzaline, the floor darkened with patches of oil that stained the dirt with blackened rainbows. The light was dim here, now that the black thumbs were grabbing a few hours of sleep – the world was still. Quiet. 

“I miss you,” he said to the silence in this corner permeated with Nux's energy. His voice was a harsh whisper, this confession torn from his chest and offered as a sacrifice to anything that was listening.

Slit closed his eyes tight, drawing in a deep breath.

And his eyes snapped open again as a faint noise brushed against his ear. He tilted his eye, eyes narrowing slightly. It was a faint brush of feet against dirt, a soft muffled laugh. A whisper in the darkness. Someone was coming. And his heart began pounding in his chest, a thrill that brushed its fingers over his spine. Every nerve was alive, listening – and it recognized the footsteps, the murmur of the person who approached.

It was Nux. Of course it was Nux. As if he had sensed Slit's presence in the heart of his world and had come to investigate. As if Slit's confession had been a string that tugged him downwards. How else could he have known, Slit wondered. How else could he have known to come? 

He shifted position, no sitting back against the shell of the car, but rising into a crouch. Part of him wanted to stand up and confront Nux. Demand a conversation, a few stolen moments. He wanted to see him, grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, wanted to hug him tight and never say a word of protest. Something more tangible than a few stolen glimpses.

But Slit froze before he could rise up from his crouch. A frown carved itself across his face, brow furrowed into deep grooves. There was a second voice, low and laughtng, voices twining around each other in a harmony that gave him goosebumps. Nux wasn't alone.

Slit ducked down again behind the car, just as the two figures entered the darkened bay. Nux's voice was a flat murmur, bleached of emotion, but the other voice was low and laughing, a velveteen purr that Slit recognized.

“You sure we'll be alone here?” said the voice of Spike, named so for the small metal spikes implanted across his skull in a fanned mohawk, screwed through the flesh to turn his skull into a living weapon. Lean and lithe, all wired muscles and dark eyes, he carried a certain reputation amongst the warboys – he could get anything you could ever dream of. For a price.

“I'm sure,” Nux's voice was flat, worn around the edges and threatening to unravel at any moment. “Everyone's recharging their engines. No one'll be here 'til mornin'.” His voice shifted slightly, the flatness breaking beneath a crest of soft urgency, “You brought it, right?”

Slit couldn't help himself. Curiosity was too strong. The need to look at Nux when he was so close, just a stone's throw away. How could he resist? Slit peered around the corner of the car, fingers grasping metal as if he could soak up the quiet strength of the vehicle. He steeled himself to look. And his stomach dropped down to his feet when he saw them together, perhaps thirty feet away. 

Spike laughed, a low silken chuckle as he reached out, slipping his arms around Nux's thin waist with a familiarity that spoke of past stolen moments. “Of course, I brought it,” he said, leaning down to nuzzle the soft curve of the other boy's neck, lips trailing against tender flesh. “Have I ever let you down?” 

_No._

Slit stared from behind the haven of the broken car, horror blooming inside of his chest, rooting his feet to the ground. Frozen in spot, his fists clenched and nails digging into his palms, tiny crescents of rusted pain that echoed the crushing of his ribs. It felt like each bone was breaking, shattering and collapsing beneath the weight of his disbelief – like being thrown from a lancer's perch – the world spinning and grasping for something, anything and being knocked senseless by the weight of the earth.

He knew that he should leave, he knew that he should pry his feet from the ground and slip away into the shadows. But he couldn’t. All he could do was stare. Why did it feel as if he was dying? Why was it impossible to drag in deep breaths of oxygen, like a fist had been driven deep into his stomach, fingers curling deep into his guts and squeezing tight. Nux had fucked other Warboys before – sex was common amongst the adrenaline fueled youths, seeking pleasure amongst a world of war and brutality. Slit had too. A simple fuck in back corridors, quick and meaningless. But it wasn’t an experience he had ever shared with his driver.

So why it feel like he had been on the wrong side of a grenade blast?

He watched as Spike slipped a hand to one pocket, withdrawing a small pouch, dark leather cracked from the touch of a thousand palms. Slit watched as the boy shook something out from the small bag, as if revealing a treasure too precious to expose to the light, a familiar gesture amongst the boys who craved stimulation of every sort. Even though the pair before him were clad in shadows, Slit knew what was happening. 

Spike was dumping a bit of his precious blue dust onto the metal toothed edge of a key – and sure enough, Nux ducked his head down towards the key. When Nux raised his head again, his eyes fluttered shut like tiny dark moths against alabaster skin, his breath drawing into his lungs in a shuddering gasp of pleasure. Only a faint trace of blue shadowed the edge of one nostril. 

Slit bit his lip, running one hand over his shaved head. He knew what Nux was experiencing right now – the blue dust dissolving into sapphire flames that dazzled the blood. Each nerve kissed with decadent pleasure, a delicious haze slowing the mind – every small sensation amplified, radiant with intensity. It was cerulean sunlight melted down to set fire to the veins, powdered bliss to kiss the soul.

He heard Spike give a low throaty laugh. “Feels good, don’t it?” he murmured, stepping closer to the boy. 

Nux gave a slow nod, the faint trace of a smile crossing over the corners of his lips, as ephemeral as the tears of dew that clung to dawn-kissed desert stones. He didn’t even open his eyes, floating away in his own cloud of pleasure. 

“’s good,” he agreed, each syllable tumbling slowly from his lips, heavy like honeyed molasses. 

“I gave you want you wanted,” Spike reminded the drugged boy pointedly. His voice sounded feline, a velvet purr of satisfaction, his face bare inches from Nux’s lips. 

Slit held his breath as Nux struggled to open his eyes.

When his heavy lashes finally raised, his gaze was cloudy and hazed, as if each attempt to focus was too difficult to master. He managed to give a gentle nod. Spike chuckled, moving forward to press his body against Nux’s, hips against hips, claiming the other boy’s lips in a fierce kiss shadowed with his hunger. 

_No._

The world was shifting, splintering in a thousand fragments of horror and Slit felt his own breath begin to turn ragged, tearing against his throat as if oxygen had shifted into sand, tiny shards of glass that lacerated with each swallow. His heart felt raw, ribs split open to expose the beating muscle to the fury of the desert. Each kiss was a dagger, silvered pain to slice his soul into wounded ribbons. Nux barely moved in front of his eyes, but faint moans and sighs trickled from between his parted lips – each sound tearing another hole into Slit’s chest.

_Oh Valhalla, please stop this._

He knew that he should leave – he should slink away and leave the two boys to their rutting. But his feet were rooted to the ground. His mind felt assaulted from a tidal wave of emotion. He had failed. He had tried to save Nux. He had crossed the desert beneath the unforgiving sun, he had slain the buzzard bastards, tore the hearts from their chests,, he had faced the vast, wild destruction of the sandstorm, had spilled his lifewater without a second thought, had swallowed those dark bunker secrets and kept them locked within, had watched in silent agony as Nux turned into nothing more than a shadow. That’s all Nux was now. A ghost trapped in memories, chained by blue dust and rotgut and the overwhelming agony that cradled his bones, too deep for Slit to touch.

Lancers were supposed to protect their drivers. But Slit had failed at every chance. His best had been less than mediocre. He had lost Nux. He had failed him. Had driven him into the arms of another. Nothing in his half-life had ever hurt like this. 

“I know what else you need,” he heard Spike drawl softly, pulling away from the embrace. And Slit watched with dull eyes as Spike raised one strong palm and struck across Nux's face. The sound of flesh striking flesh reverberated through Slit's ears, almost as horrifying as the gasp that hissed out from Nux's lips, a sound of pain mingled with a whimpering moan of pleasure.

Something inside of him was snapping. Breaking into crystalline splinters of danger. Pain blooming into something more, something darker, something violent and frightening. Rage. High octane madness fanging thorugh his blood, black-ruby chaos sparking through the rivers of his veins, screaming for pain, screaming for sanguine flesh to rip and tears to shatter into glass.

Slit wasn’t even aware of leaping over the broken husk of the car, wasn’t aware of grabbing Spike and physically tearing him away from Nux. His clenched fist drew back, then lashed out – propelled by his fury, his hate, his pain, every tense muscle coiled with the power of his rage. Bone against bone, a satisfying crunch and Spike tumbled to the ground. Slit positioned himself between the fallen boy and Nux.

“Get out of here,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth. The other youth looked at him with shock, light glinting off of the metal screwed into his scalp. One hand reached out to trace the blood trickling from his bottom lip, and the sight of the scarlet droplets seemed to spark Spike into action. 

“What the fuck’s your problem, mate?” Spike hissed at him, scrambling to his feet, dark eyes flashing with irritation and growing anger. 

“He’s. Not. Yours,” Slit snarled, the syllables harsh and guttural. The rage was growing, expanding, howling with a fierce pleasure when he realized Spike had no intention of leaving. A storm was brewing.

Spike arched one sharp black brow, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Doesn’t look like he belongs to anyone,” he sneered, venom dripping from every word, mocking eyes laughing as each bladed syllable struck home, a scorpion in the form of a boy. “Let him have his fun.”

Slit looked over his shoulder, sparing a glance at Nux. The other boy was leaning against the wall behind him as if his legs needed the support of dirty stone. But his heavy eyes were forced open, his hazey gaze shrouded with a faint detached curiosity as he stared at the boys before him. Even as Slit watched, the other boy’s legs buckled slowly, and Nux slid bonelessly down the wall to the ground. The corners of his lips twitched again with the ghost of a smile. The blue dust had him enthralled beneath its own song.

Slit’s eyes flicked back to Spike, narrowing into a glare. “Of course, he’s having fun,” he snapped. “He’s dusted outta his fuckin’ mind.”

Spike shrugged his shoulders. He used the back of his wrist to smear away the blood that was beginning to dribble down his chin, his lips curving into a wicked little grin. “I just give him what he asks for.” 

All semblance of control shattered. Slit snarled as he lunged, tackling the other boy. They collapsed in a fury of fists and snarls. Fingers clenched into weapons of flesh, punching, clawing, tearing. Curses and grunts torn from throats, the sickening sound of bone against meat, bodies tumbling over each other as they warred for dominance, two vicious princes of savagery, wolves wearing the skins of boys. 

Slit swore as Spike landed a well-aimed elbow to the face, his head crunching back and vision flashing white, the world spiraling into a kaleidoscope of pain. But the pain was a lash against his pride, sparking the rage once more, crowning him with a coronet of frenzied ruthlessness. And this time, when he drove his fist into Spike's face, the boy's neck snapped back in a spray of blood and teeth, tiny pearls flashing amongst a crimson rain. And then Slit was on top of him, straddling his waist, snarling with each punch.

He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Every muscle in his body was screaming for blood, every nerve howling for Spike's utter destruction. He wanted to shatter every bone in his body, he wanted to see the rivers of blood, he wanted to tear out the tongue that had spoken with such insolence. He wanted to break every finger that had been used to hurt Nux's dazed body, and pluck out those laughing eyes that had looked upon the drugged boy with hunger. Spike had satisfied that hunger in the past, he knew that with utter certainty. This had happened who knows how many times before. 

For a moment, Slit was blinded with something akin to madness. 

“Slit.” The word was barely more than a faint whisper, a murmur weaving at the edges of his consciousness. “Slit, you have to stop now.”

Nux's voice tore him out of his red-tinged fury, and Slit's next punch stuttered to a halt before it could reach its prey. He looked down. His hands hurt. Knuckles torn and smeared with scarlet. But it was nothing compared to the boy beneath him. Spike's face was a stain of blood, pouring from his mouth and nose. Eyes already swelling shut, one cheekbone looked as if something within had shattered. And the metal spikes from which the other boy took his name, the shining silvered lances implanted beneath the skin of his skull to form a dangerous mohawk – half of them had been ripped out of the flesh completely. Bruises were already mottling over Spike's chest – no doubt, several ribs were broken beneath the blunt fury of Slit's fists.

For a moment, Spike didn't move. For a moment, Slit thought he was dead. 

But then the boy beneath him gave a low moan, spitting out another spray of blood and teeth, barely clinging to consciousness. Slit's eyes narrowed into a glare of pure hatred, and he leaned down, his lips bare inches from the other boy's ear, watching ribbons of blood river down his neck.

“You can hear me, can't you, Spike?” Slit murmured dangerously.

The boy moaned again, a faint whimper of pain and fear hitching his voice. But he managed the slightest of nods. 

Slit gave a nod of satisfaction. “Good,” he said softly. “Because I want you to listen an' I want you to remember this. The next time you or yours come near Nux with that blue dust of yours, I'll rip out your fuckin' throat with my bare teeth. Got it?” 

This time, the nod was stronger, almost frenzied in its agreement. 

Slit rose to his feet, watching dispassionately as Spike began to crawl away. The threat had been eliminated, and now the other boy didn't matter. Slit turned his back to the broken boy. Three strides brought him to Nux's side, where his warbrother was still sitting on the ground, back propped against the dirty wall. 

Nux didn't look alarmed or concerned at all, though he had somehow maintained enough presence of mind to prevent pure murder. The faint shadow of a smile still kissed the edges of his lips, a smile that deepened as Slit lowered himself gingerly to sit beside him. His blue eyes blinked slowly, struggling to focus on the face of his friend.

“You're bleeding,” Nux whispered. He wore an expression of puzzled curiosity, one finger reaching upwards to brush a careful tip across Slit's cheekbone where scarlet beads smeared across flesh. 

Slit shrugged one shoulder, although the gesture sent twinges of lightning-laced pain through his body. Spike had gotten in more good swings than the warboy would care to admit – he would have his own set of vicious bruises to wear as badges from this scuffle. But that didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was Nux. 

“Doesn't matter,” he said, flashing a cavalier grin to hide his wince. “A lancer protects his driver, don't he? Even from low-life snakes like him.” 

Now, Nux's puzzled curiosity melted into a disapproving frown, which was impressive considering the pleasure of the dust still in his veins. “You shouldn't have done that,” he said, more sigh than statement.

This time, Slit didn't even try to throw a smile. His face grew serious, studying Nux carefully. It had been too long since they had been near each other – an eternity of loneliness and shadows since they had slept in the barracks. Now, Nux's skin was ashen grey in the dim light of the mechanic bay, but even the fresh white powder couldn't disguise the sunken circles beneath his eyes, the prominence of his sternum shadowed beneath his torso – too many nights without sleep and too many days without food, running on empty. The cuts upon his chest had healed into thick ropes of scar tissue, silvered ridges curling into the beautiful cylinders of the V-8 engine. A faint shimmer of sweat beaded upon his brow – and from his seat beside his driver, Slit could feel the fever heat radiating from Nux's body, as if he had swallowed the sun.

He knew that he should stay silent. But the words tumbled from his lips with a mind of their own. “Why're you gettin' mixed up with the likes of him? He's bad news, Nux.”

It seemed to be easier for Nux to focus on Slit this time, though the disapproving frown was already blooming into another soft smile as blue dust whispered its dreamy euphoria through his veins. “Feels good,” he murmured. “Feels better than... Better than the nothingness.... Spike... Makes pain feel good.” 

How much agony could a heart withstand before it shattered completely? Slit's chest was aching from within, and he wished he could rip open his own veins and pour his own blood into Nux's body, ignite the cold shadows with his own fire. But he could do nothing. Words had crumbled into ash against his tongue, heavy and choking like guzzaline.

All he could do was reach out with one hand, brushing bruised fingers softly across the sharp bones of Nux's cheek, as if one tender touch could contain all of the words one warboy could never say.

But the touch was too much for the fragile shell that had once been his fierce companion. Nux flinched away from Slit's fingers, a faint panic blossoming in his eyes at the hint of kindness. “Not like that,” Nux muttered, ducking his head nervously. “Harder. Needs to be harder. Gotta make it hurt.”

Slit's hand fell woodenly to his side, his features carved into a mask of agony.

“No,” Nux shook his head. “Like this.” And he leaned forward, capturing Slit’s mouth with his own.

The world was forgotten at the taste of Nux's lips.

It was the thrill of throwing the perfect lance and watching the target implode into cinders and ashes. It was the taste of fresh water after a day in the desert, cool and quenching. It was the blood lust purring in his veins, throwing back his head to howl at the moon. It was every successful hunt, it was the primal joy of racing across the desert with the beat of the drums echoing the tattoo of his heart. It was as if Slit had been starving his entire life, and hadn’t even realized it until now. He was drowning in an ocean of delirium, intoxicated on Nux's lips. It was everything shiny, everything chrome, every glorious dream he had ever had. This was surely Valhalla, this was the eternity he had always been seeking.

_Mine,_ came the feral growl of satisfaction in his mind.

They were somehow on the ground, Slit's back against the cold earth, but all he could feel was the heat of the searing kiss. His hand lifted to hold the nape of Nux’s neck, a low groan spilling from his lips. The other boy’s body was pressed against his, all hard angles and lean muscles, and every inch of Slit’s body felt kissed by fire. The kiss was flame and lightning, the fierce primal power of sandstorms, the burning heat of the sun, burning him from the inside out. His hands slipped down to Nux’s waist, fingers looping through the belt loops of his pants, pulling the other boy tighter against him. He nipped at Nux's bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth, biting back a growl of desire.

“Yes,” Nux breathed, the whimper laced with blue-dust bliss. 

Slit froze. And abruptly, the illusion shattered. This wasn’t real. None of it was real. It was just the blue dust. And he was no better than Spike. “No!” he gasped. “Not like this.” 

It took every inch of will-power for Slit to shove Nux away. He pushed Nux aside and sat up, drawing in a long, shuddering gasp of breath. He ignored the other boy’s murmur of protest, struggling to control his breathing, struggling to calm his racing heart, striving to ignore the hunger that screamed at him to reach over and claim the other’s mouth once more. His lips tingled with the loss of Nux’s – his body physically ached for him, every nerve screaming with emptiness. 

He ran his hands over the smooth skin of his scalp, his breathing harsh and labored. “You don't really want this,” Slit muttered. “It's the dust talkin'. Not you.”

Shame and frustration battled within him, two armies slashing at his insides, lashing at the cage of his ribs. He wanted to run away, dash into the warren of corridors and disappear into the deeper levels of the citadel. He wanted to find Spike all over again and finished what he started, fists slashing until the other boy choked and drowned in a pool of his own blood. He wanted to throw a thousand spears and watch the horizon bloom into an ocean of flame. He wanted to leave Nux where he sat, alone in the dim, grimy mechanic bay amongst the metallic skeletons of broken cars and broken hearts.

But he couldn't leave Nux here in this state. It would be hours until the blue dust faded and the boy returned to his senses, and until then, he'd be easy prey for any bored warboy who wandered along, looking for some fun.

A growl of frustration twisted from his lips. But before it died, it morphed into nothing more than a heavy sigh of acceptance. Slit climbed to his feet, reaching down to help pull up Nux, one hand outstretched to steady the other boy in case he swayed. But Nux stood steadily upon his feet. That was a good sign. 

“C'mon,” Slit said shortly, his clipped words making it an order rather than a request. “We're getting outta here.”

“Where are we going?” Nux's slow words were tinged with a faint note of curiosity.

There was a moment of hesitation. Slit had no answer. And that was when his eyes fell upon a small metallic shape amidst the shadows of the car skeletons. Dusted with rust, the handlebars still gleamed strong and chrome, leather criss-crossed over the saddle of the seat and patched rubber tires were still plumped with oxygen. It had been battered and destroyed, yet built together once more by the Citadel's black thumbs – obviously inspired by those bastard Rock Riders and their fleet of canyon-jumping dirt bikes. But this one was larger, stronger – and looked sturdy enough to handle two passengers, a rusted steed to carry them out across the sands.

Slit gave a low whistle of approval. “We're going out for a ride, Nux,” he said, a slow grin beginning to smolder across his lips. “Can't you hear the Wasteland calling?”

Nux tilted his head to the side, brow furrowed with heavy concentration. And then another powder-bliss smile bloomed, gentle and soft and filled with delight. “I can hear it!” he said, his whisper radiant with wonder and excitement, sounding almost like the child he had never been. “Slit, let's go now! It's calling to us!” 

Slit couldn't help but laugh as he pulled out the bike, sparing a moment to ensure the guzzaline tank was filled with the liquid fuel it needed and strapping a pair of goggles to his face. A few minutes later, one of the repair bay doors was thrown open, and the low growling purr of the motorcycle's engine filled the air, a rumbling thunder between his legs that matched the roar beneath his ribs. Adrenaline was already sparking through his blood. He wanted to fly.

“C'mon, Nux,” he said, reaching out to help the boy climb behind him. Sturdy pegs provided a perch for his passenger's feet, and Slit felt the warmth of arms slipping around his waist. 

“I should be driving,” came the only mutter of complaint muffled against the ladder of his spine, but even that shadow of protest was overshadowed by the glitter of excitement burning in Nux's too-bright eyes. He hadn't been out of the Citadel since their return. 

Slit shook his head, revving the engine to admire the purr of the thunder surging up into a cyclone crescendo of sound before settling back into its steady roar. He flashed a grin over his shoulder. “Nah, mate,” he said. “This time, I drive. All you gotta do is sit back and enjoy the ride.”

He twisted the throttle, and Nux's arms tightened around his waist just as the bike surged forward, a rusted raven with wings eager to taste flight. The dim headlight bobbed in the darkness, a pale shadow of the bright moon that hung overhead, easily lighting their way. The sand sprayed, the stars glittered and shimmered like diamond dust in the velvet darkness above their heads, urging them forward. 

At least this hadn't changed. Everything else had. But at least, right now, they had the roar of the engine and the sand of the desert and the yearning call of Fury Road.


	9. The Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slit takes a blissed-out Nux off on an adventure. 
> 
> But the blue-dust fades too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes! Writing this chapter while drinking a bottle of wine is TOTALLY a great idea and will absolutely lead to awesome story telling! Nope, this can't possibly go wrong! Also, I promise promise promise, a more fluffy chapter shall be coming! I'm working up to it!
> 
> P.S. I'll come back tomorrow to fix tipsy mistakes! Shhh! Pretend they don't exist!

The wind blew across Nux's cheeks, cool and silken like fingertips against fevered flesh. It felt soothing like water kissing his skin. His arms were wrapped tightly around Slit's stomach, and the warmth of the other war boy's skin was a stark contrast. He didn't know what felt better – the cool air or the warmth of Slit radiating against him. 

He was riding again. How long had it been since he had been on the road? The weeks had blurred together, time broken and lost within the shadowed pits of the Repair Bays – he had spent so long with his hands cradling wrenches and torches that he had almost forgotten what it felt like to race along the Fury Road, wind whipping past his body. 

It felt like he had wings. 

He had spent too long trapped. And now he was riding once more, the wind whispering its joy as it whipped against his ears, the song of the moon encouraging him in wild arias of beauty, and the blue dust was pulling him upwards to dizzying heights. Slit's heartbeat thudded against his chest – Nux could feel it kick like a drum against his ribs – so strong, so powerful – the perfect accompaniment to the symphony of the desert. He could feel every breath radiating through his friend's body – he could feel each beautiful inhalation echoing against his nerves, each breath a tiny miracle that he wanted to savor. The motorcycle between his legs growled, a powerful thrum that reverberated against his skin, a beast of steel and leather that roared with life.

He felt alive. Gloriously, beautifully alive. 

He laughed, his hands untangling their grip from Slit's waist, throwing his arms back as if he could embrace the entire night sky. The wind whipped at his limbs, and he closed his eyes, delight coursing through every inch of his body. His blood was racing with exhilaration, pleasure dazzling every nerve, and he couldn't resist throwing back his head, howling with wild joy. 

He felt Slit's laughter bubbling against his body, as if the laugh had bloomed from his own chest. They weren't two boys on a motorcycle – they were one glorious creature of metal and blood, pure and strong and free and invincible.

The blue dust was strong. Waves of pleasure pulsed through his body, a tidal wave that tingled, threatened to drown him beneath the intensity. He was drowning in an ocean of ecstasy, overwhelmed by the pure bliss of riding once more with his lancer. Nothing had ever felt so perfect. After so many weeks of drowning in sadness, paralyzed by numbness – he felt as if he was breathing for the first time. He was happy. 

_There is no sadness here._

His mind faltered for a moment, the pleasure skittering to a halt, stumbling . Sadness? Rust under the skin and shame and blame and so much pain burning in his heart.

_No._

He lowered his arms, wrapping once more around Slit, burying his face against the smooth skin of his back. His breath brushed against the ridges of his spine, curling against the thick folds of fabric that hid the brand at his nape, and he could feel the throb of Slit's heartbeat against his ear. Pulsing with such wild abandon, as strong as the boy before him. He could feel each muscle shifting as Slit coaxed more speed from their metal steed, and beneath his fingers, he could have traced each scar that trailed across Slit's stomach. 

The shadows of sadness were gone as quickly as they had arrived, buried beneath another wave of pleasure. This was joy. Riding through the desert. The moonlight lighting a path. Dust whispering in his veins. Slit's heartbeat. Pure. Primal. Raw. Ecstasy.

How long could a perfect moment last? It lasted forever. It felt like a single moment, a kaleidoscope of pure bliss fracturing and splitting into an an infinite spiral of adrenaline and fierce satisfaction, a glimpse of paradise that he wished he could freeze to savor forever. 

He barely noticed when he felt the motorcycle veer to the side, no longer gliding over the smooth blacktop of Fury Road, but bumping and spinning over rough ground, spitting sand and dirt as it plowed its way off shore. Slit had a destination in mind.

When they came to a halt, Nux didn't recognize where they were. Around them, he could see twisted shrubs, dried and dead, and the corpse of a single tree, gnarled trunk stretching out to the sky in search of rain that would never fall. Beyond them was a large boulder, flattened at the top as if a giant's hand had reached down and carved away its crown.

Nux barely waited for the bike to slow to a stop – already scrambling off of the motorcycle before Slit had even turned off the engine, eager to explore. The boulder was begging to be climbed, and like an eager little war pup, the boy scrambled over. His boots easily found holds in the stone, and with strong fingers, he climbed up up up, reaching the flattened perch at the top.

He heard Slit's low chuckle, heard the rustle as the other boy followed in his shadow, strong arms easily bringing him to Nux's side.

Standing upon the boulder, Nux could see everything around them. The moon was bright, pale silver light bathing the dunes that wrinkled across the desert, bleached and beautiful. Behind them, he could still see the smudge of the Citadel. Above them, the stars looked brighter than he had ever seen, vivid diamonds glinting and dancing like the shards of a shattered mirror, so close he could almost reach up and pluck them out of the velvet night and cradle them between his palms like tiny gems. The night sky was dusted with iridescent swirls, faded chrome to purify the darkness. 

He had never seen anything so beautiful, his heart catching in his chest and threatening to stop beating from the overwhelming wonder of it all. 

Nux could feel the amusement glittering in Slit's voice as the other boy laughed softly. “I had a feeling you'd like this place,” Slit told him.

He barely managed a nod, unable to tear his eyes away, afraid to even blink lest the beauty disappear. Everyone was so still, so serene, quiet and hushed. As he watched, a star detached itself from the others, streaking across the sky in a pale ribbon that took his breath away. “Slit, did you see that?” he asked, excitement colored each word.

But when Nux looked over his shoulder, Slit was watching him, not the night sky, arms folded over his chest and a rare soft smile curling at the edges of his lip. “You're so dusted right now,” he observed, his voice teasing instead of mocking, gentle instead of colored with scorn.

Such a far cry from earlier. He could remember the fury painted across Slit's features, twisting them into a mask of rage. He could remember the sound of bone against flesh, and Spike's cries blurring into moans bubbled with blood. 

Nux flinched, shaking his head to dislodge the memory, feeling a faint swell of shame fighting its way through the warmth of the dust.

In an instant, Slit was at his side, his voice low and distracting. “None of that now,” he said quietly, lowering himself down to sit upon the boulder. “C'mon. Look at the stars.” 

It was as easy as distracting a pup, diverting their tears with a pretty piece of metal, all shiny and chrome, glittering wonder to overpower any negative emotion. Tears and fears could be distracted with a story or a trinket or the sparkling beauty of the stars.

Nux lowered himself to the rock beside Slit, leaning back on his elbows and neck craning backwards to stare up at the sky. The stars were so bright. And they called to him. Each star seemed to twinkle and chime, silvered notes like bells that woven together in a chorus of enchantment, a nighttime symphony that teased at the edges of his hearing. Could Slit hear the song of the night?

He looked over at his friend. Slit had reclined backwards on the stone, palms cradling the back of his skull like a pillow, looking relaxed as he gazed up at the sky. His pale dusted skin was bleached silver in the moonlight, shadows carved into each muscle and tracing against each sinew. Usually, fierce energy was coiled and crackling through his veins, but for once, he looked peaceful. The moonlight glittered off of the wicked metal staples staked through his cheeks, refracting like stars as those sharp cheekbones shifted into a smile.

“Beautiful,” The word trickled from between Nux's lips like a prayer, heart-felt and pure. 

Everything felt beautiful. Everything felt wonderful. Bliss twisting through his veins, warm and soothing, like sinking into a dream. He never wanted to wake up from this. He wanted this moment to last forever.

Slit's voice broke through the stillness. His eyes were still raised to soak in the silver dusted swirls that curled against the night sky like a river amidst the stars. “Valhalla awaits us,” he said quietly, repeating the words that so often tumbled from Nux's lips when looking up at the same sight.

“Valhalla doesn't want me,” Nux said softly. His voice was gentle, though it lacked the pain that he usually felt at such a statement. It didn't hurt to confess the truth, not with the blue dust whispering its song. It gave him enough strength for honestly.

Slit made a strange, strangled sound, as if he had been punched in the gut. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice harsh as the sand around them “Why wouldn't Valhalla want you?” He heard fabric scrape against stone as the lancer bolted upright, all appearances of relaxation forgotten.

Nux shrugged his thin shoulders. It wasn't a conversation that seemed important, not with dust still singing. “Valhalla's for heroes,” he murmured. “Valhalla's for the chrome. For the Immortan's favored. I'm rusted, through and through. Broken 'n busted. Mediocre. Ain't got no spark left. But you'll go there for sure. The heroes are waitin' t'call your name.”

“You listen to me, Nux,” Slit's voice was vehement, roughened and fierce. “ I ain't goin' to Valhalla without you. Got it? You ain't rusted. You might be an idiot, but you ain't broke. You'll go to Valhalla if I got to kick down those shiny gates myself.”

Nux blinked, taken aback at the lancer's ferocity. The smile upon his lips was dying. He didn't need to look at Slit's face to see the glare – he could feel it through the darkness, smoldering through the shadows. He couldn't understand it. He couldn't understand Slit's denial and anger. 

He shivered. The blue warmth in his veins was fading and suddenly, the stone beneath him felt tinged with ice, cold and unforgiving. The wind held a chill, bleached like the stars. Goosebumps rose against his skin, painful prickles that made him wish for a warmth stronger than flames, deeper than clothing. He felt hollow, insides emptied of everything and beginning to collapse in upon itself.

“You gotta eat more,” Slit grumbled. “You're nothin' but skin 'n bones, skeleton boy.”

He heard a shuffle as Slit shifted, and suddenly, strong arms slid around his body. There was warmth as Slit's legs mirrored his own, thigh against thigh, his chest against Nux's spine, creating a shield from the cool desert wind. Slit's flesh was warm, fever hot, sun kissed and radiant as if embers had threaded themselves into his marrow. Nux soaked up the warmth gratefully, sinking back against Slit as if his hard muscles were as soft as pillows. 

This would never happen at the citadel. Within those stone walls, they were soldiers, destined to kill and die and howl with fierce pleasure at the prospect of pain. Only milkers and breeders craved softness – Warboys weren't soft and they rejected all hints of such repugnance. But hidden under the moon within the bleached desert dunes, there were no rules. 

It was getting colder. Talking about Valhalla had burst the bubble of bliss, the gift of the dust. The pleasure was ebbing, trickling between Nux's fingers like a handful of sand. He tried to cling to it, frightened of the numbness that lurked beneath. Reality was too dark, too empty, too cold – he wasn't ready – he wanted the delusions of joy to last just a little bit longer.

He shivered again. But this time, it had nothing to do with the cold.

“It's fading, isn't it?” Slit's voice was a low thunder in his ear, rich and grave. 

Nux nodded silently, knees drawing up tighter to his chest, trying to soak up strength through the arms that Slit had crossed across his torso. He was starting to feel the first threads of panic whispering at the edges of his mind. Before, when he had felt the blue dust fade and the joy dissolve into stark gray coldness – he had been able to drown himself in rotgut – burning alcohol easing the pain of the comedown. But there was no rotgut. And there wouldn't be any more blue dust. There would be no more bliss. This was the last.

Slit had seen to that, fists shattering Nux's connection when he had shattered Spike's face.

And Nux found himself stiffening. Panic spiked. Resentment laced through his bones until it poured straight from his lips, roughened and harsh. “I never asked for your help,” he lashed out, twisting out of Slit's arms and scrambling to his feet.

Slit didn't looked surprised at sudden verbal attack or the ferocity burning in the other boy's eyes. He gave Nux a long, quiet look, cocking a dark eyebrow. “There you are,” he said softly. “I was startin' t'think the dust would keep you.”

“Do you have any idea what you've done?” Nux snarled. Panic was bubbling into fury, a blaze of anger to war against the cold threads of shame twining through his blood. 

Slit rose to his feet, broad shoulders straightening, tension thrumming through his muscles. “I saved you,” he said unapologetically, arms folding over his chest. 

The shame was blooming within Nux's stomach, flames of humiliation and frustration burning him into ash. Slit had seen Spike's lips upon him in exchange for dust. Had seen him as helpless as a sprog, a pathetic weakling war pup. Slit had seen his pain, his cowardice, the mortification of his softness branded across his flesh, his own weak heart rusting inside of his chest. 

“You ruined everything,” he cried out helplessly, fists balling up. “You're always ruining everything.” Shame was growing. Pain crackling through his nerves, red-laced lightning that threatened to consume his heart, the endless darkness. He couldn't breathe. He lashed out, shoving Slit as hard as he could.

Slit stumbled backwards a few feet, caught off guard from the unexpected attack. But he had the reflexes of the warrior-born, and almost instantly, he recovered. There was a slight moment of hesitation, dark eyes flashing with something akin to pain before steeling into something harder, colder.

“You're doin' a good job of ruinin' everything yourself, mate,” he sneered, his face pressed close against Nux's, brows almost touching, eyes narrowed and daring the other youth to try his luck.

“Why did you have to come save me?” Nux hissed, furious, aching, drowning in his own darkness. They weren't talking about Spike anymore. It was deeper than that. 

“You should have left me out there in the desert. You should have let me die!” His fingers curled up into a fist. He didn't think – couldn't think – frustration flooding through his veins and he was sinking, drowning – he punched.

Slit didn't try to avoid the blow. It connected square in the jaw, sending the lancer tumbling to the ground. Yet when he rose to his feet, his dark eyes flashed with an unexpected glitter of satisfaction. 

“That's it?” he said mockingly, his derisive voice at odds with the searing satisfaction in his eyes. His tongue darted out to brush against the blood dribbling from the new cut in his lip. “You're growin' soft as a milker, Nux.”

Nux snarled. Panic was jittering stronger, growing, screaming – mingling with fury until he wanted to scream and claw nails across his flesh. It was too strong, too intense, it was going to burn him up from the inside out. But he couldn't peel back his skin to release the furious anxiety. He did the next best thing, lashing out once more. Another fist to the face.

Slit's head snapped back when knuckles slammed into cartilage, though this time, he had been prepared for the punch. He held his ground and stayed upright on his feet. He laughed. “Poor little warpup,” he taunted, a thin ribbon of blood curling from his nostril to match the cut on his lip. 

Nux tackled him, skinny shoulders slamming into Slit's stomach, tumbling them into a pile of limbs on the ground, cursing as he punched and lashed out, brawling as the pair had scuffled a thousand times before. For the first time in a weeks, he felt fueled by anger instead of pain, pure fire instead of numbness. He didn't feel like a ghost, blurred and fading and praying to disappear into dust and sand. Slit had succeeded in provoking the flames of ire – as the lancer had intended. 

They had grown up brawling, fighting, punching – settling arguments with fists and blows – and forgetting them just as quickly. But for once, Slit didn't fight back. He absorbed the punches with a few grunts, just as he absorbed the fury and the pain, the curses and the anger, allowing them to spill out from their source, allowing the poison to drain from the wound. He accepted it all without complaint, until he could feel the exhaustion beginning to slow Nux's arms. And then he easily took control, as he could have done all along, overpowering the smaller boy and pinning him to the ground like a sleepy sand-lion immobilizing its prey.

“Are you done yet?” Slit asked, straddling Nux's narrow hips. The younger boy had spent too many weeks in the darkness of the repair bays, too many days without food and only rotgut and dust for nourishment – it didn't take long to dominate – though Nux still glared. He hated that look of satisfaction in Slit's eyes, as if he was savoring the sight of the other boy's rage - he wanted to slap off the smirk that twisted those lips, wanted to spit fire and saliva in his stupid smug face.

“Get off of me,” Nux gritted, trying to wrench his wrists free of Slit's grasp. 

The smirk faded from Slit's face, replaced with something more serious. There was no hint of the mocking tone that had colored his words just moments before. “Looks like you've still got your spark,” he said pointedly.

Nux froze, staring up at the other Warboy. The fury was fading beneath a strange sense of confusion. Blood trickled from new cuts on Slit's face, and his chest was already darkening with a new constellation of bruises. The lancer was leaned in close, merely inches away, and they were both panting from the exertion, breath harsh and burning against their lungs. He could smell Slit's sweat, the grease painted across his brow. The warmth of the other boy's thighs burnt against Nux's waist, heat smoldering through fabric - which only made it more difficult to draw in gasps of sweet oxygen.

The strength of Slit's hands against his wrists made him flush. And suddenly, another mortifying memory of the night's events crossed over his mind, like the star that had fallen across the pre-dawn sky. Only hours earlier, he had flung himself at Slit in a dust-infused passion, had felt the searing fire of lips parting beneath desire. 

Slit had shoved him away. 

Back in the present, Slit's body stiffened above him, went still, dark eyes locked upon starfire blue. Neither of them moved, frozen and trapped in a single moment. The lancer was remembering it too, Nux thought. He could see it reflecting in the dark pools of Slit's gaze, a slight glitter of hunger sparking, the way those wounded lips parted in a faint sigh.

And abruptly, the weight of Slit's body was gone. Nux blinked, found himself staring at an outstretched palm. His body felt cold where Slit's weight had rested. 

Suddenly, he felt numb again. The adrenaline, the raging fire from only moments before was flagged and faded. He felt weighted down in a blanket of confusion, shackles of shame clinging to his wrists. Why was he disappointed? It was the mark of a fool. He had imagined the flash of hunger in Slit's eyes – hadn't Slit made it clear earlier? He could still feel the lancer's hands against his shoulders, fingertips branding flesh in the cool shadows of the Repair Pits – shoving him away. Pure rejection. 

And it was understandable. Why would Slit want to touch filth and rust and tainted flesh? Why would he want the touch of a Warboy as broken as the Wretched? It was selfish to even imagine such a thing. 

Nux shivered, ignoring Slit's outstretched hand, pushing himself up to his feet. Sand clung to his body like guilt, tiny bits of stone and gravel imprinted in his flesh. He brushed away the dirt, grateful for the feeble excuse to avoid Slit's eyes. 

Why did he want to taste Slit's fire? Because his own was ash? Burnt and crumbled and cold? The kiss in the Repair Bays had been unplanned, unexpected, unprompted until the blue dust had taken control. A mistake. 

The confusion deepened, disorienting. Nux didn't know what he felt. He wanted to taste Slit's lips. He wanted to punch him in the face as hard as he could. He wanted to be hurt. He wanted to watch his own blood to curl down his own body. He wanted more blue dust to dazzle in his veins. He wanted to disappear completely, flesh unraveling and bone disintegrating until it was powdered pearl amidst the sand and even his name was forgotten.

He had tried so hard to disappear. Tried to protect Slit from himself. It was better that way. Wasn't it? 

His skull was beginning to pound, a drum beat throbbing through his temples. The numbness spread. His chest ached beneath the gravity of his exhaustion. Never before had the blue-dust come down felt so intense. He wanted to sleep for a thousand years and never wake up. He wanted the bliss back.

Slit's voice was quiet, but it easily knifed its way through the turbulent hurricane of Nux's thoughts. “Dawn's comin,” he observed. The moon was already brushing its way against the horizon, dark inked shadows beginning to lighten into deep coal grays. “C'mon. We should be getting back before anyone misses this hunk o'junk.”

Nux shrugged his shoulders silently – words had shriveled into dust within his chest, cobwebs silencing his throat. He climbed down from the boulder, shrouded in a silence as heavy as his heart, and climbed once more upon the back of the motorcycle. 

The motorcycle roared to life, a growling purr that broke the pre-dawn shadows. But instead of coiling hands around Slit's waist, Nux closed his eyes, fingers grasping and twisting the fabric of his own pants as the bike jolted forward, a steel equine screaming for speed as they raced dawn back to the Citadel, leaving behind a trail of sand and lost desires. 

His heart was rusted and cold. His wings were clipped. 

The bliss was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> [](http://nutty-writer.tumblr.com/post/144866228349/some-fan-art-for-a-writer-i-adore-on-ao3-the-work)  
>   
>  http://nutty-writer.tumblr.com/post/144866228349/some-fan-art-for-a-writer-i-adore-on-ao3-the-work 
> 
> AHH!! Check out this amazing art by the super talented [Weirdness_Unlimited](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirdness_Unlimited/pseuds/Weirdness_Unlimited)! I have no words to express my awe and gratitude and pure fucking amazement at such talent and just... WOW! LOOK AT HOW PERFECT IT IS! If you want to see a bigger image, go to this tumblr link [HERE](http://nutty-writer.tumblr.com/post/144866228349/some-fan-art-for-a-writer-i-adore-on-ao3-the-work) and you should also check out Weird's amazing writing [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirdness_Unlimited/pseuds/Weirdness_Unlimited). EVERYONE LEAVE WEIRD ALL OF THE LOVE, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!


	10. The Raid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slit goes off to battle for the first time without Nux. 
> 
> It does not go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is going to be a little more chaotic than the rest - trying to capture the craziness of battle. It's a fine line between being chaos and confusion, though - so hopefully it's all relatively understandable! Also, soooome Imperators don't make the best battle plans (aka I am terrible at military tactics and strategy). >.

Slit's head snapped up when he heard the drumbeat. The fierce tempo that immediately made his heart quicken, the sound of thunder, the song of war. It was not the barraging rumble that called an entire warparty to assemble – when the noises rolled off of the citadel walls in an echo that surged into a crescendo that promised death – but the sound was dangerous nonetheless. 

_Finally,_ he rejoiced.

Life in the Citadel was often comprised of boredom and heat – patrols amidst the dunes without the spark of danger, simple supply runs to Gas Town or Bullet Farm where nothing ever went wrong. Just waiting and riding and praying for battle. But the wait was over.

War had arrived at last.

Slit's eyes flashed as he joined his brethren, each Warboy shouting and running towards the Lifts as they always did, fists bearing steering wheels being pumped joyfully into the air, arms filled with lances, cursing and laughing with exhilaration. Warriors who spent their entire lives praying for moments like these, burning for the honor and prestige that awaited.

One warboy peeled away from the rest, joining Slit at his side, arms crossing across his chest while he grinned. The lancer peered over at Gauntlet, a bikeboy driver with the darkened eyes and nose of a boy reaching the end of his half-life – if he didn't burn out in glory, he'd go slow and soft thanks to the handful of lumps clustered across his chest. 

“It's a raid,” Gauntlet said, his voice a whisper. “No more than six vehicles. Eight bikes. Just a few teams bein' chosen – they want it quick and brutal. Lightning strike.” 

Slit had long ago ceased to ask where the other boy got his information – it sometimes seemed like Gauntlet knew things even before half of the Imperators themselves – and he was almost never wrong.

The lancer gave a grunt of acknowledgment as he let the information trickle through his mind. “Who's the target?” he asked at last.

Gauntlet flashed a grin, hands clenching into fists as he struggled to contain his excitement. “Rock rider filth,” he said happily. “In the last week, we've found four of their scouts in our territory. Furiosa got her paws on one of them – made 'em sing real loud. They're plannin' an attack on the next supply run. So we're gonna hit 'em first. Teach 'em a lesson they won't forget.” 

Slit tilted his head. “Who're they pickin' to go on the raid?” 

Gauntlet was staring past him, frowning slightly. “Oi!” he shouted to the older warpups that were pushing out a motorbike, lean and mean and glistening with the promise of death. “Scratch that chrome and I'll shred your hides!” He shook his head, grumbling as he turned his attention back towards Slit. “Imperator Tertius will be leading – Ace as his second. Ace's usual boys – plus me an' Diesel, you and Nekro, an' a few other boys who might catch their eyes. Oh, an' two pups will be tagging along for their first bloods. With any luck, they'll be able to call themselves Warboys before the moon rises.”

It felt strange. The mixture of fierce excitement that flooded through his veins, the rush of energy that dazzled before every battle... But accompanied by a bizarre sense of regret. He had gone on plenty of patrols and supply runs in the past weeks since the Buzzard attack – uneventful, sleepy affairs that bored him to tears and gnashing his teeth from frustration. But this was the first time he was going to battle without Nux at his side.

Slit had never fought without Nux. When they had been pups, they were inseparable. They had managed to have their first raid together – had spilled their first blood, slain their first enemies – and had earned their status as Warboys. Driver and lancer – every battle was the same – Nux grinning wildly and vibrating with excitement, bouncing on his heels as he waited for his Coupe to be wheeled out onto the sands – trading curses and affectionate insults and pushes, which only served to ignite the adrenaline even stronger. They had always sought glory together. Nux was the pistol and Slit was the bullet - destroying any enemies that stood in their paths.

But now, the battle was his alone, and for a brief, unpleasant moment, Slit had the uncomfortable sensation of riding forward without armor – like he was about to ride into war without his beloved lances, unarmed and vulnerable.

Gauntlet was giving him a puzzled look, and Slit shook his head to dispell those uncomfortable thoughts. There was no place for softness before a battle.

Instead, he closed his eyes. Let the sounds of the drums echo in his ears, pulse like gunfire through his veins, stirring his blood – setting it aflame. There – he could feel the glow in the bottom of his stomach – like rotgut warming his nerves – growing stronger, building, blooming. Excitement. Blood would spill and the world would shake with fire and bone and it would be because of him, he would scream and he would slaughter and he would show them all what it meant to defy the Immortan.

His hands rose, fingers interlacing above his head.

“By my deeds, I honor Him,” Slit murmured the familiar litany, and he heard the quick echo from Gauntlet beside him. 

When he lowed his hands, a grin, fierce and terrible, twisted his scarred mouth and he laughed. “Let's bag us some Rock Riders,” he yelled, slapping Gauntlet on the back and dashing off. 

The Warboys were a well-oiled machine – within no time, the vehicles were assembled at the foot of the Citadel, weapons gathered, soldiers chosen – boys yelling and howling and shouting with laughter, pounding palms against the hoods of vehicles, engines purring and engines roaring and dust flying – and they were off.

The wind whipped across his feet, and Slit laughed from the lancer's perch. If he narrowed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was the back of Nux's head in the cab before him, instead of Nekro. Except Nux would have been at the front of the pack, coaxing more speed from their steed, instead of staying firmly in the middle of the the gaggle of vehicles, where Slit had no choice but to choke on dust. 

But then, since Nekro has lost his lancer a moon back, he was more hesitant. 

_Goin' soft,_ Slit thought sourly. It was galling to be partnered with someone whose fire was burning dim – but he prayed it would only be temporary. Surely, Nux would grow tired of the Repair Bay soon, and beg to return to his duties as a driver.

Still, whether he had been shackled to Warboy going to rust or not - he was glad to be in the lancer's perch once more, riding with the wind in his face and the battlelust rising, the sun warming his skin and the sounds of his brother's howling and laughing around him. Blood would flow. They would be ready. 

The thrill of the hunt carried him forward, as the miles passed and blurred in a smudge of anticipation. The hunger growing, hours bleeding past beneath their frenzy – their prey awaited. 

And then suddenly, the canyons rose before them, red-dusted rock spreading towards the blue sky, broken with valleys and gorges carved deep into stone, peppered with broken shrubs and shriveled branches gasping for life. Going through the ravine wasn't an option – merely asking to be ambushed by the Rock Riders on either side, easy prey for the demons with their grenades and vicious bikes. But, they didn't need to reach the other side of the canyons. 

It was better to draw their enemies out. 

Two motorycles parted from their pack, throttles pushed to the limit as they dashed forward and left the other vehicles in their dust. Darting into the ravine, the dangerous crack within the mountain that held such peril – they were the bait to attract the prey. The Rock Riders often kept camps on either side of the canyon – protecting the valuable causeway with the small outposts that served as eyes and initial defense. None of them would take kindly to Warboys crossing their territory without permission - but they'd be able to handle a handful of Riders with ease.

At first, there was only silence. Only the sound of his harsh breathing, only the sound of his heart pounding in his chest. His hands reached out to grasp the familiar shaft of a lance, the steel steadying his excitement, rooting his adrenaline to manageable levels. The minutes dripped by as slow as oil, heavy with anticipation. 

Then he heard the shouts. The sounds of gunfire. The thunder of explosions and stone falling. The sound of motorcycles growing louder, more than two – the canyon filling with dust and the sounds of curses – and then there was laughter as two motorcycles plunged out of the chaos of the ravine – the Warboys had made themselves noticed. They had drawn the attention of the Rock Riders – and had made their mark upon the canyons walls, to judge from the sounds of exploding earth. 

The bait flew out from the ravine as if they had wings, laughing and howling – and followed by a swarm of angry Rock Riders. One, two, three, four – a half dozen bikes streaking out from the canyon – leaping across rock like red-dusted mountain cats, yelling and snarling. 

Right into the Warboys' clutches.

Slit tightened his grip on his lance, laughing. Battle had arrived. It would be such a beautiful slaughter, easier than breathing – such exquisite pandemonium. “Go, go, go,” he shouted, pounding on the hood of the car to spur Nekro onwards – wanting a taste of blood before the Rock Riders were pounded into the dust. 

Six Rock Riders against a battalion of Warboys? They were dead within minutes, the lifewater spilling across the sands in scarlet rivers, smoke rising from the twisted wreckage of their bikes. It was finished between one breath and the next.

Warboys howled in triumph, fingers intertwined to offer gratitude to V8 as they slowed to a halt – and then, the world came crashing down around them.

The only warning Slit had was a faint prickle beneath his brand, hair rising uncomfortably on his arms – something wasn't right – something was very wrong -

And then there was the spray of bullets – drumfire screaming from the canyon walls as metal rained upon them, tearing through the small army of War Boys. So many bullets from so many different directions – sand spraying and glass shattering and shreds of metal ricocheting through the air –

 _We didn't even hear the reinforcements,_ Slit thought, dazed for a moment as he heard the first screams. _Where they waitin' for us all along?_

There hadn't been the warning of approaching engines – just bullets hailing down, ripping through them – the roar of thunder as explosions tore through the air – grenades hurled with such practiced rage, shaking the world, tearing metal apart with a scream of death and smoke.

Slit snagged two lances and hurled himself off of the lancer's perch, even as another rain of bullets came pouring upon them, spraying sand and splintering windows into a waterfall of glass shards. He ducked behind the safety of the car – waiting for Nekro to join him or take off – but there was no movement from the cab where the driver sat. Perfect stillness. Raising onto his knees, he could look up through the shattered window – and there was Nekro, slumped against the leather with unseeing eyes, the bullet hole in his forehead blooming like a painted target – bullseye.

There wasn't chrome on his teeth, but Nekro would be feasting and racing in Valhalla tonight. It wasn't historic, but it was hell of a lot better than going out soft.

There was no time to cheer his war brother's passing, no time to do anything except flatten back into the sand. They were all pinned down behind their vehicles - one bike went down, but the others veered away from the cluster of danger that the cars represented - and Slit swore as the gravity of the situation settled upon them. How were they supposed to pick off the Riders while trapped? The cars were useless against the safety of height that the Rock Rider's mountain provided – the only way to cut them down would be to climb up the canyon walls themselves.

Apparently, Ace had the same idea. Slit recognized the harsh growl barking out orders, which only meant something had taken the Imperator out of the fight. The eldest War boy was struggling to regain control amidst the chaos, and a lifetime of obedience drilled into their souls made his leadership unquestionable. Tertius' second had taken command.

“Bike boys – I want you to get up there on them cliffs. Take 'em out before they bleed us dry. Lancers and drivers – we'll keep their attention down here. Draw their fire.” 

A crude plan with a thousand holes in it but it was all they had.

Even as he watched, Ace scrambled onto the back of a 57' Chevrolet Sidestep pickup, settling behind the vicious minigun bolted in the back, its rotating barrel glinting wickedly and already threaded with an ammunition belt. Before the Rock Riders even had a chance to take aim, he was shooting – bullet shells flying and the canyon walls erupting in a shower of rock and stone. Even as he watched, a warpup scrambled up beside him to feed more ammunition – while other warboys grabbed lances and guns and joined their bullets to his. No longer hiding behind steel cars - they would die without hesitation to get the bikeboys their chance.

“Slit!” he heard the call – and Gauntlet was near him – his lancer either dead or injured badly enough to leave the driver alone on the motorcycle. Slit didn't hesitate, just grabbed his lances and threw himself onto the bike, and Gauntlet hit the throttle, and they were flying across sand and stone. There was a roar as the other war bikes did the same, peeling away from the cars in order to find a way to their target.

The lancer laughed – his blood was fire, his heart was wind – speeding them onward. More bullets rained around them – the Rock Riders had recovered from Ace's initial fire. But Gauntlet flew ahead of the gunfire – and the canyon walls exploded in another spray of stone as Ace's minigun fought to distract the Riders from their marks – stronger than the rest of the Warboys' weapons combined. At least until lances began to be hurled up towards the cliffs - creating clouds of smoke and debris sure to obscure the Riders' aim, carving deep gouges into the canyon walls. 

The world shook and burned.

Gauntlet's bike was an extension of himself, the Warboy's soul in steel and rubber – and it carried them forward towards the worn dirt paths that crawled and wove up the canyon's face – too small for the vehicles to climb but perfect for two wheeled monsters. He could see other bikes doing the same – a half dozen warbikes flanking up the mountain walls. Gauntlet pushed his bike and it growled, it howled, it pushed harder, faster – carrying them up – up – up over stone and dust and ragged weeds – just a little higher -

And then Rock Riders loomed on the ridge before them, crouched down against the earth to steady their guns as they tried to pick off the warboys that still flourished amongst the parked vehicles. A little more than half of a dozen Riders on this ridge alone – and they swung their guns to the sound of the bike that burst upon them. But before they could twitch their fingers against the triggers, Slit had already hurled a lance and flung himself from the back of the motorcycle – thunderstick peeling towards the right while he rolled to the left, and Gauntlet hit the throttle to speed faster – running right through them, over them, past them.

The lance exploded and he heard such delicious screams, and then Slit was already back on his feet and it was exquisite chaos. Two of the Rock Riders had fallen to his lance – one of them rolling around in agony until he simply rolled right over the edge of the cliff – while one looked like a pile of charred meat and a third man lay on the ground, clutching the thigh that looked shattered beneath the force of Gauntlet's bike. The last three looked disoriented – but Slit was among them, a white-dusted dervish tackling them, punching and screaming. One man cradled a semi-automatic to his chest, and Slit simply wrenched it out of his hands, snarling as he used the barrel to smash his enemy's face into a puddle of brain and bone. Two prey left.

And then Gauntlet was back, motorcycle growling as he barreled into the two remaining survivors – using his beast to bowl them over – and before they could even scramble to their feet again, Slit was amongst them, a blade pulled from his boot to give them scarlet necklaces, wicked silver steel opening their tender throats as easily as tearing paper and blood poured in puddles beneath his boots.

But there was no time to celebrate – no time to think, no time to rest – more Rock Riders were scrambling onto the cliff – following Gauntlet's trail back to the lancer who had cleared the ridge – the riders were a swarm of angry hornets – so many – buzzing with fury with death in their eyes and Gauntlet was shouting, and the Rock Riders were all around them and he couldn't do anything -

Then agony.

The world freezing into a crawl, flashing and blooming into an explosion of scarlet and silver behind his eyes and his knees felt weak – his breath was stolen from his chest, there was no oxygen beneath the flames of pain. There was fire in his blood and blood pouring down his body, he could feel the warmth rivering down his hips and he was on his knees, looking down at the wound that sprouted across his abdomen – the flesh torn open and yawning wide. Above him was a Rock Rider with a bloody blade in his hand and death in his eyes.

 _Valhalla,_ his lips wanted to taste the word like a prayer – and only Gauntlet to Witness - this wasn't how he thought it would end –

Through a fog, he seemed to hear the sound of screams – more motorcycles – the other Warboys had finally made it up the beaten canyon path behind them – reinforcements had arrived and the man with Slit's death written on his blade fell beneath their fury. They were spectre ghosts that swept the Rock Riders away, leaving a trail of corpses behind them.

Then Gauntlet was crouched beside him, lips moving into words that Slit couldn't quite grasp – probably telling him to sit back, grabbing the jacket of a dead Rider to stuff against the wound, pressing hard while blood poured.

Oh V8, Nux was going to _kill_ him.

Nux. It was like sunlight breaking through clouds in an arrow of light – the thought of his driver sparked something stronger than the dizziness, thoughts crystallizing beneath one simple fact: he couldn't die here. Couldn't let some fucking Rock Rider scum take him down, tear him away from Nux like a mediocre trash. 

He took a breath, and suddenly, the pain receded. Or rather, it simply faded into the background, became a part of him, something vaguely present but not overwhelming. Distant, and thus unimportant. Organic would probably mutter some technical jargon like “shock”, but Slit had no use for fancy words. They didn't matter.

“Sit down,” Gauntlet was hissing at him – he heard the driver's voice through the fog ringing in his ears, but the sound felt muddy, far away – moving slower than his lips. 

Slit ignored him, slowly rising to his feet, swaying like a pole cat but somehow remaining upright. He cleared his throat, somehow found words on the tip of his tongue – slow, but understandable. “Need bandages,” he said thickly. One victory down.

Gauntlet rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath about stubborn asses, but used Slit's blade to shred an unfortunate Rock Rider's pants into ribbons of cloth. With the corpse's jacket torn and stuffed against the wound, the lancer took the haphazard bandages gratefully and winded them around the jacket remains, tying the strips as tight as he could. Breathing was almost impossible, and he knew that the agony would come screaming back soon – but for now, his heart was racing too quickly, adrenaline too strong – it was manageable.

The battle wasn't over – Slit could still hear the sounds of bullets, the furious war-cries, the screams of pain on the cliffs ahead. “C'mon,” he said heavily. “Sooner they're all dead, sooner we can go home.”

The driver was glaring viciously, not even trying to hide his curses and opinions on the brains (or lack there of) that rested in the skulls of lancers - but he climbed onto his bike, reaching back to help Slit scramble up behind him. The engine roared, the motorcycle jumped forward – and they climbed upwards to the next cliff, the next round of riders.

Slit fought. There was no ferocity – no blood lust – no wild joy. There was only pure focus, just cold and exhausted determination. He fought because there was no other choice. The world had narrowed down to this single canyon – condensed into a lifetime of screams and curses and blood and fire and death – death everywhere, and the gates of Valhalla teased temptingly at the edges of his mind and he heard a thousand voices calling his name -

He didn't even realize when his legs buckled. 

And darkness descended like crows upon his mind.


	11. The Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nux discovers how serious Slit's injuries are - and he must try to face the prospect of a future without his lancer.

“Nux?” The thin voice was apprehensive, barely cutting through the clamor of the repair bay. Grinding metal and the roar of revving engines and the clatter of hammers and boisterous laughter and shouts of black thumbs trying to make themselves heard over the din. It was a riot of sound.

For a moment, Nux didn't even realize he had been called, bent beneath the opened hood of his latest project, his scarred lips etched into a frown while his fingers gripped a wrench. It wasn't until he felt insistent tugging on his pant leg that he raised his head.

It was one of the younger war pups, much to small to do much yet except watch and learn or run messages, frail boned and curious and constantly underfoot. Except now, those curious eyes were giant orbs, their depths glittering with hesitation and fear. “Nux?” he repeated again, urgently.

Nux tilted his head, shoving his wrench into his back pocket, pushing away from the car so he could crouch down low beside the pup. “You found me,” he said gently, trying to ease the fear he saw reflected in those eyes.

The pup lunged forward, sliding one tiny hand inside of Nux's larger palm, fingers clasping tight while he started to tug, trying to pull him as insistently as his small frame could. He was a tiny bird fluttering with panic threaded through his voice. “Ace said you gots to come,” the child said. “Hurry! Hurry! Gots to come now!”

Nux frowned, reaching out to lay one greasy hand on the pup's shoulder, easily holding him in place. “Woah there,” he replied, trying to ignore the uneasiness that rippled through his body, a shadow of dread that breathed a whisper down his spine. “Slow your engines. What's going on?” 

“Ace said you gots to come! Something went wrong on the raid an' he's shredded bad – they can't get him to stop screamin' an' fightin' – I think he's dying - guts an' blood everything an' Ace said you gots to come NOW.”

But Nux was already gone. Tearing through the warren of tunnels, stumbling and pushing past unfortunate war boys who threw curses at the driver who sprinted with blinded eyes, sick with fear. 

There was only one person it could be. Slit. Slit had gone on the raid, while he stayed safe and snug within the nest of the Repair Bays – his lancer had gone out to face the Wasteland alone – and now he was dying? Nux never knew that fear could spread so deep, crystalline ice curling fractalled fingers through his veins, glass pumping behind his ribcage, cold stark terror. 

He flew. 

He could hear the screams as he approached the Infirmary – they barely sounded human, pain and rage twisting through vocal chords to sling against stone walls, a sound that made cold sweat break out against his brow, his stomach twisting with nausea. Even in those animalistic screams, he could recognize Slit's voice.

But when he burst into the infirmary, he wasn't prepared to be walking straight into a brawl. Chaos at its finest.

“He's gonna bleed out,” the Organic Mechanic was shouting, blood painting his flesh up to his elbows. He jumped backwards as a body was flung at him, a dazed warboy who practically ricocheted off of a low-dangling blood bag, landing in a senseless heap of bones and flesh. 

Ace was yelling and two more war boys were descending upon a familiar figure who swayed on his feet, yet somehow kept upright. It was Slit. Shoulders heaving, and one arm curled protectively around his abdomen – the pup had been wrong, Nux didn't see any guts, but flesh was torn open, torn deep, and there was so much blood, blood everywhere – streaming down Slit's stomach – liquid garnet that gleamed black in the shadows of the med bay – puddled across the floor and a nearby table.

“Maggot filth,” Slit was snarling, swaying like a polecat on his feet, eyes glazed with agony and fury and sedatives, without a spark of recognition in their depths. 

“You're back at the Citadel,” Ace was trying to shout reassurances, approaching the boy with upraised arms to show his empty hands. “Easy now! You're home! Let the Mechanic do his job.” 

He had to duck when Slit hurled a scalpel in his direction. 

“Slit!” Nux shouted, standing in the doorway. His heart was hammering, sputtering, choking in his chest. There was so much blood, how was it possible that one person could hold so much lifewater in their veins? How much could one person afford to lose?

Slit's body jerked at the sound of his own name, gaze sweeping towards the door. Agonized confusion stole across his features, a fevered puzzlement that suddenly broke into relief – and then worry. “Nux?” he asked, swaying forward one step. “What are you doin' here? It ain't – ain't safe - “

The warboys landed on him, taking advantage of the precious moment of distraction – two war boys and Ace – pulling him back down to the bloodied table while he struggled against their grasp. Holding down limbs while Organic approached again, a pair of bloody forceps glinting wickedly in his hand. 

“Hold 'em harder this time,” he told them sourly. “Got a few more pieces of debris to grab. Then we can try stitching him up.”

The screams came again, furious and enraged and agonized and Nux wanted to vomit when he realized Slit was still trying to fight, even with forceps buried deep in his belly and only the strength of the Warboys kept him still enough to avoid tearing something vital.

And suddenly, Slit's body sagged back against the table – rag doll limp – and the silence was just as horrifying as the screams had been moments before. He was pale – so pale – ivory and bone and black painted eyes. Nux was frozen in the doorway as Ace's fingers fumbled at Slit's throat. He couldn't breathe – what if -

_No._

And relief was overpowering as Ace nodded. “Grab the restraints,” he barked out to his boys, before his gaze swept back towards the Organic Mechanic. “Work fast, doc. Before the sedatives fade and the kamikrazy bastard wakes up again.”

Nux had to grasp the stone doorway to keep his legs from sagging, collapsing. “Is he dying?”

_Oh V-8. Please no._

Organic growled a warning, raising one bloodied hand to wave a dismissal. Ace saw, nodding. He approached Nux, laying one hand on his shoulder and pushing him gently out of the Infirmary.

“Did good, kid,” he said gruffly, his voice like rust, though Nux could barely register the words. He was trying to look over his shoulder, trying to catch another glimpse of Slit – but the Organic Mechanic was hunched over, his dusty back blocking all view. Nux tried to sink his feet into the ground, but Ace's old body held deceptive strength. The other two warboys flanked behind them as their leader steered him out, taking up silent positions on either side of the doorway in case of further emergency.

“I thought y'might be able to calm him. Bloody fool started takin' swings when Organic started fishin'' for debris.” A hint of wary admiration tinged Ace's words. “Don't know how he was still standing' after losin' so much blood. And pumped with enough sedatives to knock out the People Eater himself.”

Nux tried to wrench out of his grasp, wanted to barrel back into the Infirmary, but Ace's old fingers were like steel vices digging into the bones of his shoulder. His grip was forceful, but his voice was not unkind. 

'Tell me what happened,” Nux begged, dizzy with desperation. He couldn't breathe – Slit's pale, still body flashing through his mind, the sharp contrast of blood against porcelain skin, the wound like an open mouth screaming within his belly. “The pup said he was dying.”

Ace paused. “Not quite sure what happened,” he admitted after a long moment. “Got word that Rock Riders were nibblin' at the edges of our territory. Trying to cut themselves a bigger slice of the pie. Supposed to be a simple raid – not even worth a war party. Remind them why the truces exists. Went badly, though. Lost four boys. Got half a dozen injured – including an Imperator. Two rides destroyed.” 

“But he's going to be okay,” Nux insisted.

Ace hesitated. But there was no room for anything except honesty in the wastelands, brutal and burning. There was pity in his eyes. “Never seen anyone lose that much blood and walk away before,” he said gently. “And belly wounds have a habit of goin' sour instead of healin' proper. Bloody shame.” He shook his head, giving Nux's shoulder one last gruff pat.

And then Nux was alone. Legs weakened, stomach burning as if a fist had driven right into the meat and flesh, unable to breathe. Dizzy with horror. The world was breaking at the seams, pale cracks fracturing into webs, trembling, shaking – upside down. 

A life without Slit? He had been shrouded in darkness for so long – now there was light and it burned his eyes, scorched his soul, shame and sick twisted fear clenching its grip around his guts. Nux felt lost. A puppet with cut strings, a speeding car without brakes – careening out of control. Surely this was a nightmare? Surely it wasn't real – just some warped figment of a dream cooked into his brain from the night fevers – surely, he would wake up any moment and the world would be right again, and Slit would be there, smirking at his fears and telling him he must have busted a screw loose in his skull if he thought his lancer could die so easily. 

Nux didn't remember striding across the room, didn't remember standing before the V-8 shrine. Cerulean light filtered into the room in blurred streaks, dust motes dancing lazily through the air. The luminescence fell upon the shrine – setting silvered sparks amongst the steering wheels tiered into a display of such power. A temple of chrome, a totem of strength and power. Steel and bone and plastic – each wheel was a testament to the V8's glory – the keys to the chariots that would lead them to Valhalla. The beauty, the power, the hypnotic call of V8.

Nux's knees buckled, falling heavily to the stone floor beneath. He didn't feel the pain of impact – it was nothing compared to the fear in his chest. His head bowed, arms lifting and fingers interlocking to form the V of reverence. And there he prayed, as he had never prayed in his entire half-life. 

_Don't take him,_ he pleaded. _Don't let him die soft. Don't let him die under Organic's knife. Don't take him away from me._

Fear was metallic against his tongue, the bitter taste of copper like blood. Goosebumps across his flesh – terror was ice, the cold shadows that made his muscles coil and tremble – but there was no way to get warm when the bitter chill lurked within. 

What was more terrifying? Waking up every day for the rest of his half-life, knowing Slit was gone – or knowing that Slit had died soft, denied the glory of a historic end - never to be carried to the gates of Valhalla, never to hear the songs of the heroes, never to ride on the eternal high-ways like he deserved? 

His fingers tightened, interlaced so tightly his knuckles ached. 

_I've been such a fool._ The truth was so obvious now. Oh V8, how it hurt. 

What was a driver without his lancer? An engine trying to run without guzzaline, a lance with a faulty grenade, chrome gone to rust, roots shriveled in sour soil, water tainted and poisoned with salt. Empty and hollow and half of a man. Never whole again. 

For the first hour, Nux blamed himself.

Guilt was a brand burning away his insides. Helplessness felt like fingers wrapped around his throat, cutting off all oxygen – squeezing tight. Sorrow shuddered within his bones. His eyes were burning beneath their lids – salt crystals hardened in a heart made of glass – cracks kaleidoscoping across each ventricle – a sob trapped behind his ribs. His insides were shattering beneath the fear – shards of ice piercing through his lungs when he tried to draw in every ragged breath. Guilt was the rust choking through his blood, a nightfever he couldn't awaken from. 

He had been so lost within his own pain, his own misery, trying to destroy the rust within. He had failed Slit. Over and over and over again. He had failed Slit by being captured by the Buzzards a lifetime ago. Failed him by not provoking them to give him a death worthy of Valhalla. With pushing him away, day after day after day. He had failed Slit by embracing the haven of the Repair Bays – Nux knew the Repair Chief was bribing someone in order to keep the black thumb on his Crew for just a little while longer, but the boy hadn't been bothered. He should have been driving. He should have been on that raid to protect his lancer. He should have been there to share the bloodlust and screams and laughter and pain – not sheltered from the fighting, lost amongst metal and sparks and oil and grease. He had not been there – and Slit had fallen.

For the second hour, Nux raged. Raged at himself, raged at Slit, raged at the entire brutal fucking world.

Fury born of fear, flames to kiss the ice in his bones, horror and terror and emptiness growing and a pain greater than anything he had ever felt. A scream blooming inside of his chest, trapped behind the clenched cage of his teeth. 

He wanted to scream until he could split blood like curses against the stone, wanted to clench his fingers into fists and punch the walls until they shattered around him in a cloud of dust and frustration, until searing tears bled down his shattered knuckles. He wanted to jump behind the wheel and speed off into the desert and find those Rock Riders – wanted to hear bones break like a crashing car, wanted to rip open their rib cages and reach within and pull out handfuls of intestines while they watched in horror – wanted to dip his fingers into their blood and paint it across his forehead – wanted to burn and rage and slaughter every last one of them. 

_You idiot,_ Nux wanted to run into the Organic's shed and grab his lancer by the shoulder and shake him until his neck rattled. _How could you? How could you let Rock Rider filth get you? How could you have kept fighting? How could you think about leaving me here alone? You can't die soft, you can't die here, you fucking asshole. DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE ME!_

And then the hatred turned to himself. Simmering in the blood. How could he have let Slit go out alone? How could he have traitored his lancer so badly? Slit has always been there for him. Slit had never let him go alone – not when they were pups, training and bleeding away their softness. Not when the Buzzards had captured him – Slit had traversed the desert and the grueling sands, had destroyed the enemy with wicked rage and his own two hands – Slit had saved him. 

His mind was an aching storm – turbulent and violent with the tempest of his thoughts. But in spite of the chaos of his mind, Nux didn't move from his station before the shrine. His hands were trembling – his legs had long ago fallen asleep – his arms ached in every muscle. But his head stayed bowed, his fingers stayed clasped.

After the third hour, he simply begged. Pleading with V8, with the spirit of Immortan, with the entire universe itself – as if the petitions of a half-life war boy could possibly hold sway.

_I'll do anything,_ he said, his heart aching with desperation. Sacrifice his black-thumb tools – never feel the wind against his cheeks or a steering wheel between his palms - drain the blood from his veins and let it puddle on the floor like oil, take the life from his chest and put the spark back into Slit. 

Sometimes, he felt other boys drift into the Shrine, murmuring faint condolences – not because of Slit's prognosis – they were all half-lives, meant to burn out fierce and bright. But because they all feared his fate: to fade out, slow and soft, dissolving into the darkness instead of scorching in a blaze of glory.

He could barely hear their voices, faint whispers against his mind. 

The world had cracked – it had broken completely and no one else could feel it. The sun was burning above them, and yet there was nothing but gray, a broken warboy beneath a broken sky. How could the Citadel keep running? How were his brothers continuing to laugh and joke and argue? Didn't they realize that the world had shattered? How could it continue as if nothing had happened, when nothing would ever be the same again? Slit was dying and he was dying soft and Nux was choking and he should have fucking been there – should have done something and now nothing would ever make sense again.

A world without Slit? Nux had known it was going to happen someday – but not yet – not like this. He wasn't ready – he couldn't say goodbye. It wasn't fucking fair. Slit was supposed to go out in a blaze of glory, not shrouded in softness. The scarred and furious boy was imprinted in almost every memory – how could he imagine a future when Slit filled almost every moment of his past? 

Slit's arm sliding over his waist, skin damp with sweat and shivering from the nightfevers – keeping him grounded from the nightmares and the sickness lurking beneath his skin – sacrificing his own aqua cola rations just to force them down his driver's throat. Slit's fierce scream, a howl of joy and the promise of blood and the sound of his palm slapping against metal as they flew over the desert in search of prey. Slit's fist against his jaw, his lancer's face blooming with fury and they landed in a heap of growls and punches and snarls when Nux laughed at his first attempts to drive. Blood pouring down Slit's cheeks from the cuts so deep – only Nux had seen the trembling in his fingers as the knife fell to the floor. Slit provoking him, pushing him, demanding that he be the best – worthy of the Immortan's notice. Slit stealing food from the kitchens as pups, splitting a wealth of burnt bread that tasted like life against his tongue. Slit's scarred cheeks twisted up into a smirking grin as fierce as the lightning storms, as vivid as flames dancing across the sands. Slit's voice down in the buzzard bunker, their foreheads pressed together, the shuddering vow that slipped from his lancer's lips - “You an' me, we go to Valhalla together.” 

Nux's fingers trembled. There was an aching hollowness carved against his bones – born of terror and guilt and tears that could never be shed, desperation pouring into every prayer that tumbled silently from his lips.

_Take it all. Take everything. Take me. Just don't take him. Not like this._

_Oh V8, don't let him die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? More angst and guilt and pain and stuff? You gotta be getting tired of reading that! I promise, the next chapter holds a smile or two to make up for the endless angst. 
> 
> Also, shout out to Weirdness_Unlimited for being my inspiration to finally finish this story! Check out the story, ["To Love Reptiles"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6542803/) if you want to fall in love with an angry post-MMFR Slit and a beautifully strange and wild original character named Dune. Plus, Weirdness also has an awesome surprise sprinkled amongst the story - some visual magic to accompany the intense and powerful word alchemy! So yeah. Check it out if you haven't already, cuz you won't regret it!


	12. The Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slit and Nux shower together. ^_~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHAHAHA! I've been dying to release this chapter, but alas, I've been out of town! But better late than never! Hope you guys like!

Slit didn't die. He didn't wake up, but neither did he give up, slipping away soft into the shadows. Each hour was an eternity, but one that Nux was grateful for. When he wasn't drowning in sweat and grease down within the repair bays, he was haunting the Infirmary – watching Slit's body breathe and silently urging his lancer to just wake up. Pale flesh against dark stone, so still that even the shadows painted against the walls felt hushed with apprehension.

“They think you're going to die,” he whispered softly, hoping the other boy could hear. Because he knew Slit. Because the lancer thrived on proving everyone else wrong. When anyone said he couldn't do something, he did it just to have the chance to smirk and sneer in their faces. Slit would stay alive merely out of spite - if his prone body could even hear the murmured words that tumbled from his driver's lips.

When Organic grew tired of Nux shadowing the infirmary and inevitably threw him out, the scarred youth would simply take up his vigil once more before the V8 shrine – lost in a world of prayers and snatched moments of sleep. 

Slit opened his eyes two days later. Lashes fluttered open, rasping voice groaning into a curse of pain, but his eyes flickered with recognition when he looked around him. Nux helped him drink a cup of cold, greasy broth – and then the lancer was unconscious once more. But the next day, when his eyes opened, they stayed open. 

He had proven them all wrong. The wound was vicious and deep, his skin was swallow and pale, and the dark shadows beneath his eyes seemed tattooed in bruised crescents. But he was able to swallow mouthfuls of aqua cola and broth, able to swallow handfuls of rations without pain – and although Organic sniffed suspiciously at the wound every evening, it didn't show signs of putrefying, as belly wounds tended to do. 

After Slit awoke, Nux spent an entire night kneeling before the shrine, offering an endless litany of gratitude and thanks. Warboys murmured about luck, but he knew the truth. It had been much more than luck. V8 had listened to the prayers of a broken, rusted warboy - V8 had given Slit the strength he needed to keep fighting. Slit had been delivered back to him, the greatest gift Nux had ever received in his entire half-life. A gift that could never be repaid – though he would have spilled his own blood in gratitude, if that had been the price.

In the end, Slit should have been in the med bay for much longer than a week, but the lancer had never been a good patient. Nux had to bite back a smile listening to Slit curse and rage at being trapped in a stone bed with needles in his arms and tubes flowing like chains, throwing objects at the cages when he grew tired of listening to the blood bags' weeping, snarling at Organic or punching any apprentices who were too heavy handed at changing bandages, constantly being found swaying on his feet instead of resting, his pain transforming into anger that lashed out at anyone unfortunate enough to be within reach. 

Organic finally snarled with impatience and kicked Slit out of the med shed – muttering about stupid lancers deserving split stitches and walking corpses being refused additional blood and no one ever showed him any gratitude for a thankless job.

And just like that, Slit was free. 

Nux was there to escort him down the hallways. He didn't offer a helping hand – he knew his partner too well. Slit insisted on walking beneath his own weight, slowly but steadily, a smirk on his lips whenever any war boy stopped to clap him on the shoulder, marveling at his luck. Only Nux could see the way his body trembled weakly – could see how much energy the effort of strength and mask of invulnerability was costing him. But Slit could never show weakness before his brothers. 

The first stop was the shower. A small cavern of a room where a rusted handle could be twisted to cause a thin cascade of cool water to fall from the pipes in the ceiling – raining sweet aqua cola to cleanse the body. The warboys were blessed to have a few minutes beneath the showers once a week – scrubbing away powder and dust and clay and sweat. 

There was always a guard outside of the shower room – typically some unlucky warboy who had found disfavor amongst an Imperator and was sentenced to spend endless hours of boredom on a creaky wooden stool to ensure that no one took advantage of Immortan Joe's favor and claimed more aqua cola than he was entitled to. Water was too precious to waste on ungrateful warboys.

Nux was glad it was Rivet on duty today – a familiar face whose eyes lit up with pure pleasure as the pair limped up. “Heard y'almost faded out,” their friend shouted with laughter, jumping to his feet and shaking his head. He reached out to grab Slit by the nape, briefly touching foreheads to express his glee. “An' here you are! Lookin' shiny an' new!” 

Slit gave his familiar smirk as he stepped away. “Ain't no way I'm going out soft,” he drawled. “When I die, it’s gonna be historic, Rivet. Fuckin’ legendary. Not fadin’ out under Organic’s watch.” 

Rivet shook his head and laughed,. admiration gleaming in his eyes. He cast a furtive glance around them before dropping his voice low, “I can give you double time in the showers today, if you need it.”

Nux cast their friend a small grateful smile. He recognized the rare act of kindness as a way for Rivet to express his own delight that Slit had managed to escape the fate that was every War Boy’s greatest fear. Yet it was a dangerous gesture – getting caught would bring unpleasant consequences on Rivet’s shoulders.

Rivet winked at him, waving them into the shower room beyond. “You definitely need it, Slit,” he teased with a wicked grin. “I could smell you coming down the hallway before I even saw you.” 

Slit growled and punched him in the shoulder, albeit a little harder than strictly necessary, but Nux pulled him away. 

The shower room was a tiny cavern of rough hewn walls. It was one great open space – a few benches set against one wall to hold dirty clothes and boots. Pipes criss-crossed like hatchmarks over the ceiling, spanning across the room where a half-dozen rusted shower heads sprouted from the stone. Drains in the floor caught all aqua cola to be recycled for the indoor gardens, but the walls seemed to always hold a perpetual cool dampness. Compared to the searing desert heat, the shower room always felt like a taste of Valhalla. A sign of weakness, Nux knew - a dangerous symptom of water addiction - yet it was true all the same. 

It was empty – a rare blessing in the Citadel that swarmed with Warboys. And the moment the door shut behind them, blocking off Rivet from view, Nux watched as Slit’s stiff shoulders slumped – the mask of strength and bravado dissolving into a weary exhaustion that painted his bones. Slit didn’t need to hide anything from Nux – there were no secrets between driver and lancer. He was hurt and he was weak and he was drained from his brush with death.

Nux kicked off his boots and dirty socks in a few easy motions, though he watched Slit lower himself gingerly to the bench, leaning down to reach towards his own shoes. But the movement made the other boy curse, pale skin blanching even paler – his wound did not appreciate such actions.

The driver shook his head, crouching down beside Slit’s feet to deftly untie his laces and wrestle off those giant black boots. 

“I can do it myself,” Slit snapped without a hint of gratitude. Pain threaded through his voice, and a spark of frustration at his own helplessness. He rose to his feet again, shaky but determined.

Nux rolled his eyes as he shed himself of his belt, slipping heavy black pants over thin hips and piling them onto the bench. “You would’ve wasted the entire time trying to get those damned boots off,” he retorted unapologetically, striding across the room to the shower heads. 

Fingers clenched around a handle and gave a twist – rewarded as the pipes overhead grumbled. And then there was a cascade of water – fresh cold rain to kiss the skin and wash away all impurities. He closed his eyes as he ducked into the stream. 

Behind him, he could hear Slit grumble, the slither of leather snaking from belt loops and fabric puddling against the floor. Then he heard the squealing protest of another shower handle being turned, and a second cascade of rain sang beside him.

“This is my second shower this week,” Nux confided smugly as he used his fingers to scrub away dust. Letting the water fall over his face, trickling down sharp cheekbones until white-dusted water streamed over his scarred lips.

“I’m the one that’s hurt,” Slit complained. “How come you’re the one gettin’ extras?”

Nux just smiled serenely, took a mouthful of water and sprayed it in his friend’s direction. 

It was a sign of Slit’s weakness that he didn’t respond with a punch or sharpened insults, as he typically would have done. Instead, he satisfied himself with a few more grumbles of annoyance, then eased himself beneath the water. A groan of contentment spilled from his lips as cold water tumbled over an exhausted body.

At the sound, Nux peeled open his eyes – droplets of water clinging to his lashes and casting shimmering diamonds across his vision as he glanced over.

Water poured down Slit's back, forming rivers and streams that wove through the dirt and dust and blood, revealing hints of pale skin beneath clay and dust. His hands reached out to press against the stone wall, head lowering to dip beneath the thin waterfall, as if the pure aqua cola could purify his flesh and make him whole.

It struck Nux anew – how close he had come to saying good-bye. It was as if the terror had imprinted itself upon his bones. All he had to do was close his eyes and he could see Slit’s body painted in blood. And the horror-kissed fear felt just as fresh as it had been only ten days before. 

It was as if he could see both Slits at once – the death-kissed warrior painted in blood and fading fast on Organic’s table, and the Slit of the present, exhausted and worn but breathing on his swaying feet beneath the trickle of water. The dying and the living juxtaposed and overlapping – the past and the present merging together to show a glimpse of a future that he couldn’t decipher. 

_I almost lost you,_ Nux’s heart whispered into the silence. 

And then his body seemed to move on its own volition. 

Nux reached out, tentative fingers brushing against the thick ridges of the brand pressed deep into Slit's nape, where burnt flesh that healed into silver and pearl. At the soft touch, he felt Slit's muscles tighten, each cord of sinew thrumming with tension. It was like grazing marble – except stone never radiated with such heat. He almost expected Slit to wrench away from the contact, but the other boy stayed perfectly skill, frozen and motionless.

His fingers dipped down to cross over the powerful broad shoulders, the tendons and flesh that held such strength. Such deceptive strength – it was hard to imagine Slit ever dying – at least, not before him. Slit had been injured a thousand times in a thousand different ways – yet he had always been torn from Death's grasp, laughing and spitting curses and fire. He had always felt untouchable – his half-life could never be extinguished by something as mundane and soft as Rock Riders. Yet it had almost happened – fragile life torn away in the blink of an eye – and each curve of flesh seemed worthy of reverence. Slit was destined for Valhalla someday – but not Nux himself. This broken half-life was all that he had – and Slit had almost died while Nux sat crowned in his own cowardice. He needed to remind himself that Slit was still here – still breathing. 

His fingertips spread to trace over the first ridges of spine, those hard pebbles of vertebrae forming a ladder and spreading into branches of ribs. He could feel the familiar creases of scar tissue wrapping over muscle and bone – relics of battles past, badges of honor and pride thriving amidst the paths of the self-inflicted symbols. 

He felt a shudder rip through Slit's body, a rough gasp that somehow made his mouth feel parched and dried, made it hard to swallow. His heart was pounding so loudly – echoing like Coma's fierce drum boys on the warpath. 

_What am I doing? What is happening to me?_

His fingers firmed, palms pressing gently against skin to help push away the rivulets of mud and blood that coursed over Slit’s back. Beneath his touch, more flesh was revealed – clean, shiny, chrome. Water spilled across his hands, over his arms, pouring across his chest – cool and pure like liquid starlight. 

He could feel the erratic hammering of Slit's heart against his fingertips, as strong as a V-8 engine growling beneath flesh. His fingers softened, slackened, no longer cleaning away dirt but tracing across skin like a gentle breeze.

Slit's body gave another shudder, and this time, Nux heard the faintest trace of a whimper. Was that a noise of pain? Instinctively, he wrenched his fingers away – guilt burning through his chest. 

“Don't stop.” Slit's voice was harsh and ragged, roughened syllables like twisted smoke torn from his throat. There was a jagged little intake of breath, dropping to something barely more than a growling whisper. “Please. Nux.”

Nux could barely breathe. The world was shifting around him, reality resettling itself, swimming and dancing – he was on the edge of a precipice, about to tumble over the edge. Something important was happening here, something frightening and powerful and he couldn't name it, couldn't stop it – something was changing here in this small dark room that echoed with the symphony of falling aqua cola, the tears of the earth watering cold stone.

His body took a step closer – fingers tentatively brushing against the solid planes of Slit's ribs. Fevered flesh burnt against his touch, but Slit's shoulders gave another tense shudder, and the gasping sigh that trickled from between his lips fascinated Nux. It was fire and desire and solace and peace – and he was the source. Tenderness was such a foreign concept to boys bred on blood and battle – yet here they were, and one simple touch was unraveling them both.

Relief was a wine against Nux's senses. Intoxicating. As dizzying as blue dust in his veins. Slit was here. Slit was alive. Slit was breathing. One day, they would be parted – Slit would ride eternal in Valhalla, honored and chrome, and Nux would fade away into dust. But not yet. They still had today. 

Slit finally lifted his bowed head, his shaven skull parting through the thin cascade of water, his broad shoulders twisting to face Nux. For the first time, Nux could look into his face. Without the mask of clay and dust, without the grease smeared across his brow – his eyes were all the more vibrant. Dark gaze – one iris smudged and smeared, a shadowed cobalt smudged with hints of forest green and desert gold – overcast with an expression he had never seen before – dusky with hungry desire, smoldering like embers in the heart of a fire. 

Something like fear brushed against his spine. It must have shown on his face, for Slit's expression twisted into something pained and he closed his eyes tightly. But before those lashes closed, Nux caught a glimpse of something he never thought to see within his lancer's eyes – a sparkle of terror amidst the burning fields of desire. Slit was frightened? 

It was impossible. Slit was never afraid – he laughed when other men quaked and shivered in their boots. He looked darkness in the eyes and sneered and smirked and snarled – as if the cold brush of terror never touched his skin. Yet Nux had seen it with his own two eyes. And that spark was enough to quench the fear that shivered in his own stomach.

He reached out, trembling fingers brushing against the heavy ridges of Slit's collarbone, tracing the soft dip beneath his throat, bone spreading like wings across the planes of his chest. Slit's eyes snapped open, hissing with surprise, and this time, the noise that spilled from his scarred mouth was a husky note that touched a cord deep within Nux's stomach, tightening with need. 

“Nux.”

He had never heard his name spoken in such a way. Barely a whisper that trailed into a groan, trembling slightly in its intensity. Almost pleading. Slit's eyes fluttering, swallowing heavily as his shaved skull leaned back against the stone wall. Brutal strength and primal fire in the form of a boy, yet one simple touch was dismantling it all. 

Nux's fingers fell, trailing gently over Slit's chest. Hard muscles so defined from years of throwing lances and punches, from trying to batter down the entire world – now trembling with desire. His touch grazed lower, lightly brushing over the linen bandages wrapped tightly across Slit's abdomen, worn fabric that hid the wound. Lower, lower, until his touch found flesh again. Trailing over the sharp contours of hip bones, the deep canyons where the pelvic muscles formed a perfect V. Dark veins cobwebbed themselves between pale ivory skin, and this time, he could hear Slit's breath hitch within his throat. He wanted to memorize every inch, imprint it upon his soul and tattoo it against his bones. 

“Fuck,” Slit swore, half murmur, half prayer, his voice raspy and raw. His eyes were darkened coals. “Nux.... What are you doing to me?”

It was as if Slit was an instrument and Nux the musician. Each swirl of his fingertips tracing constellations against skin seemed to cause a new sound to emerge from Slit's throat, soft gasps and drawn out curses and low groans – the music of desire. Nux had never heard anything so beautiful, not even the perfect hum of a well-tuned engine, not even the battle cries of his war brothers, not even the rapturous voice of the Immortan himself. 

Nothing compared to the way Slit said his name, as each letter scorched his throat with the strength of his need. 

His heart pounded louder. Surely Slit could hear it echoing against the walls of the cavern, reverberating in a kaleidoscope of lust and fascination and confusion. Nux's tongue flicked out to brush against his dry lips – he felt just as he had before his first raid – exhilarated and terrified in equal measure, unsure of whether demise or glory awaited him.

He was just inches away, feeling the electricity dance between their bodies. One hand drew slow circles against Slit's hip, and the other raised upwards to the other boy’s face to trace over the staples that glittered amongst scarred flesh. Gliding across the strong, distinct jawline – and Slit leaned his face gently against his palm, exposing the curve of his neck. 

Nux could see the flutter of pulse beating at Slit's throat, a butterfly dancing erratically beneath the skin. A sign of his strength. Beautiful. Strong. Alive. And the warboy leaned in slowly, lips parted to brush over that fluttering pulse, tasting only the faintest traces of salt and sweat and hints of copper to mingle with cool droplets of aqua cola. 

A low groan spilled from Slit's lips and it was as if the kiss against his throat unlocked him. As if it was permission to unfreeze, marbled limbs no longer stone but fire, reaching out to curl around Nux and drag him closer, as close as he could.

When Slit's palms touched his skin, Nux burnt. The hesitation, the fear had disappeared – now there was only a desire so strong, it shook him to his core. He had rutted with others before – but they were pale shadows – nothing but smoke and ash compared to this. Every nerve was on fire, dancing in the flames, scorching with heat, begging for more. 

And then Slit's mouth found his, and Nux never knew that desire could ache, that lust could be so fierce, a hunger so sweet he couldn't breathe, didn't need to breathe, didn't want to. All he could feel was Slit's tongue parting his lips and he was melting from within – no, he wasn't melting, he was drowning, he was burning, he was flying.

Teeth nipped at lips, tugging softly and Nux was gasping, whimpering, and Slit's hands were on his waist, pulling him closer, hips rocking to brush against hips, flesh melting into flesh, and he could hear Slit's growl against his ear, primal and fierce.

And then Slit hissed, body stiffening against stone – pain paling his features. Nux had forgotten the wound beneath the bandage – they both had – until the pressure of the driver's body had bloomed into agony. This time, the curses that dripped from Slit's lips were painted with frustration, tinged with anger at the weakness of his body. 

“Bloody smeg bastards,” he swore in a heavy groan. “I'm going to slaughter every single one of 'em.”

They were both gasping. Nux's fingers were stretched out across Slit's nape, their brows touching and he could taste every curse that his lancer threw, feel the trembling across every inch of his body. 

A wave of guilt coursed through him. Being consumed by desire when Slit was injured – causing nothing but pain, nothing but shadows. It was easy to slip back into the mindset.

 _Selfish, rust, wretched,_ he cursed himself, yet the words lacked their typical strength. He shifted, drawing away.

But Slit's arms tensed, tightened firmly around him. “No,” he said harshly, shaking his head. “No more running, Nux. I'm tired of watching you hide.”

Nux couldn't hide, even if he had wanted to. All of the shields around his mind had been torn away, his heart stripped raw and ribs peeled back to expose every bruise against his soul, every craving, every flame of hunger tattooed beneath his flesh. His fears laid out bare for Slit to see, every hint of rust and weakness that battered his insides.

And yet, Slit wasn't watching him with revulsion. There was no judgment in his blue eyes, no scorn at his weakness. There was only a gleam of satisfaction – the kind of look he wore after emerging triumphant from a particularly engaging fight, body battered and bloody and victorious. He looked... content, almost relieved in spite of the pain. Indeed, there was a small smirk on the edges of his lips, as he leaned down to gently nuzzle the curve of Nux's neck.

“Thought you didn't want me,” Nux murmured, remembering the way Slit had pushed him away that blue dusted night. His emotions were turbulent – a chaos of confusion and desire and hunger and fear, and he knew that the world was shifting around them forever. 

He felt Slit's chuckle – a breath of laughter against the sensitive skin of his neck, lips brushing over cold skin. “That's 'cuz you're an idiot,” Slit growled at him affectionately. Then his voice grew grave, so serious and raw, and Nux shivered with fascination – he could feel each syllable rolling off of the other boy's lips, a whisper of hunger that seemed to echo the fingers brushing against his spine. 

“You're my driver, Nux. Mine. I'd destroy the whole fuckin' world for you. But I ain't Spike. I don't want blue dust to be pullin' your strings.” Slit's voice flickered against his ear, warm and rough in a way that made Nux's blood smolder in his veins and his legs tremble with sudden weakness. 

“No blue dust pulling my strings now,” Nux gasped out, half whimper and half moan. 

The lancer's voice was a purring growl, fierce and satisfied as teeth nipped against the tender flesh just below Nux's jaw – rewarded with a sudden sharp inhalation of breath. “Mmm. Good.” 

Nux couldn't even respond with anything other than a groan.

And then Slit stiffened, head snapping upwards to glare at the doorway – and only then did Nux recognize Rivet's voice, loudly greeting approaching warboys. It was a cacophony of sound, a riot of boisterous laughter. The voices were aqua cola thrown against fire, dissolving into steam in a violent shock against every nerve.

It was just enough warning for the boys to wrench away from each other like stars falling from the sky – stepping away and hiding flushed faces beneath their separate streams of cold water – keeping bodies carefully angled towards the wall to hide the obvious consequences of such lust. Warboys poured into the little shower room, their shouts echoing off of the walls as they shed clothing like snake skin, exuberantly dashing beneath the cold water, pushing each other and laughing and cursing – a pack of youths filled with primal energy.

Nux was amazed that the others couldn't feel the hunger radiating between them – as if there was a silvered string connecting them together, vibrating with urgency – as if the taste of Slit's lips had plucked a chord of desire so powerful that even the sun above would envy their heat. Surely they could see the fire smoldering in Slit's eyes – surely they could hear the pounding of Nux's heart, trying to kick its way through the cage of ribs. 

He pushed himself away from the cascade of cool water, letting a loud warbrother take his place beneath the shower head. But as he strode towards the pile of dusty black pants strewn over benches across the room, he could feel Slit's eyes upon his back. He could feel the flames in their depths, the coals smoldering, the fire licking across his skin – and he could feel the ghost of Slit's fingers against his skin. It was a struggle to keep his breathing steady, to keep his eyes focused straight ahead. 

Nux reached the benches without a stumble. He dug down until he found his pants, gratefully pulling the dry fabric over his wet skin. The fibers quickly soaked up the water droplets that rivered down his skin – but the damp fabric would dry easily in the desert heat.

He felt Slit approach beside him. It was as if each of his nerves had become extra sensitive to the lancer's presence – the invisible string between them thrumming with tension. He felt more aware of Slit's proximity than he ever had before – as if Nux were a compass and Slit was due north. Calling to him, taunting him, inviting him forward.

Everything had changed. Nux could feel the truth of it, even if he couldn't quite decipher all of the ways in which the world has shifted. His foundation had cracked, been rearranged, been rebuilt – and it all felt so foreign, so unfamiliar. He was lost in the heart of unexplored territory, where each step held such dangerous potential – rivers of crystalline aqua cola that held the taste, the promise of Valhalla, or the threat of cliffs that could send him tumbling to his death. Life or death. Joy or despair. 

He caught Slit's gaze – the hint of a secret smile crooking the edges of the lancer's lips, his blue eye dropping into a slow wink. Nux felt desire spark once more, a physical ache curling through his blood. He was dizzy, intoxicated by the hunger he saw lurking in those eyes. 

And Nux knew it then.

It didn't matter. Life or death. Joy or despair. 

He needed this. Whatever it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, everyone!! PLEASE go back to Chapter 9: The Spark and check out the AMAZING art that Weirdness_Unlimited drew for the chapter! It's freaking PHENOMENAL! And I cannot stop squeeing. So you should go check it out and then go give Weird some love! Ah! Thank you so fucking much!!!


End file.
